For Everything, There is a Month
by Ayra Sei Ethari
Summary: If X-Men: First Class had lasted a year, the relationship between Charles and Erik might have looked a little like this: they meet because of a jump in January, and the rest, as they say, is history.
1. Jump in January

**_For Everything, There is a Month_**

_Summary:_ If X-Men: First Class had lasted a year, the relationship between Charles and Erik might have looked a little like this: they meet because of a jump in January, and the rest, as they say, is history.

_Rating:_ K

_Genre:_ friendship ; romance ; angst

_Canon Character(s):_ Charles Xavier/Professor X ; Erik Lehnsherr/Magneto

_OC Character(s):_ none

_Set During:_ X-Men: First Class

_Notes:_ This is a story that will basically talk about themes – one theme per month – until the twelve months are up, to span the length of the relationship between Charles and Erik in "X-Men: First Class", with the POV of each chapter switching between Erik and Charles. Whether or not I choose to end the story as a fixit fic or leave the ending as sour as it was, well . . . I don't know yet. So read at your discretion if you hate overly angsty or sappy endings, because I don't know which it'll be yet.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Jump in January<em>**

~ _Charles Xavier_ ~  
>He's never wanted to be a hero. He's never wanted to be a spy either. Or a secret agent. His eidetic memory, telepathy, and wide range of mastered languages aside, Charles Xavier is no soldier. He's an academic; his power lies in his words and his mind, not his body and muscles. Even so, the raid with the CIA is exhilarating, and it only gets better when he gets confirmation of not one and not two, but <em>three<em> other mutants – people like him.

The first, another telepath. She – he thinks it's a she, anyways – is cold like ice and hard like diamonds, but he pushes her out of his mind easily. She's strong, but her strength is in shielding. He's far more powerful than her.

The second, a mutant who could pull tornados from thin air. It's terrifying, and Charles is absorbing the fear from the men who are struggling to stay afloat after the man's overturned their boats, but to see confirmation of his thesis, of his _kind_. . .

It's amazing.

He's hurtling down the stairs, mind racing through possible explanations and reviewing every possible angle, when the pain hits.

It's the most powerful pull of a mind Charles has ever experienced, strong enough to break right through his shields, focused enough to call out to him without Charles having to reach for it, and for a moment Charles thinks he might actually be crying from the pain. He stops without even being aware of it, and he reaches out as easy as breathing, and –

There.

A man – another mutant – strong, focused, unstoppable –

Dying.

Not if Charles has anything to say about it.

He's barely aware of running back to the deck, following the siren thread of that mind, but he's shocked back to awareness when the mind's pull surges, and suddenly an anchor is rising above Shaw's ship, twisting in an arcane grip that has Moira and the other agents gaping in fear and surprise and worry.

The anchor crashes through the ship, tearing the deck to shreds, and Charles gapes too.

His gift is mental, and Raven's is physical, but he's never seen anything to match this. For as long as he lives, he'll never forget that sight.

But then the mind is being yanked towards him, still focused, focused enough that Charles has to strain to touch his mind behind the barriers of barbed wire and blazing guns and mud and needles and pain. It's that touch that has him half-leaning over the bars, screaming at the top of his lungs, urging the man to _let go, let it go, please let it go_.

The man ignores him.

Moira stares at him in shock as he yells at the man being pulled through the water, but he ignores her. This – this is far more important right now. He won't let a man die for something like this. If he can help, he can.

And then the man goes under the water.

Charles curses.

He still can't break through to the man, and even if he could, short of forcibly taking control of the man's body, he can't stop him. And Charles knows that's not the way to earn trust.

And so Charles – Charles who hates swimming and fears deep water and shies away from cold – Charles runs without thinking to the edge of the ship and jumps into the frigid ocean after Erik Lehnsherr.

The man's half-drowned by the time he manages to reason with him and haul him back to the surface, and he still musters the suspicion to spit fire at Charles and wariness at the CIA, but Charles doesn't care. Erik's standing there in a clinging, dripping wet-suit, without any weapons but his gift for metal, without any allies, and yet he manages to present himself with an ice-cold dignity that makes even Moira skirt around him. Charles would laugh, if he could, but Erik views him with more suspicion than anything after learning that he can read minds.

It's an occupational hazard, Charles is learning again, of being a telepath.

And yet . . .

And yet, he doesn't care. He finds he wouldn't trade anything in the world to be anywhere but in the cold Miami night, dripping wet and shivering as his clothes cling to him, with Erik staring suspiciously at him and Moira thinking he's crazy and Raven laughing her heart out over the telephone that he jumped over the side.

"Charles Xavier," he says, offering his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Erik raises a cool eyebrow. "Erik Lehnsherr."

Later on, as they change into spare clothes – track suits that are far too large for Charles, and he wishes longingly for his suits – Charles glimpses the numbers inked into Erik's left arm, and Erik stops and stares at him in a silent challenge, and the entire room vibrates under his power.

Charles feels slightly faint now. He's heard of the horrors of the second world war, of the poison gas and air bombardment and U-boats. He's even heard whispers of worse horrors, these . . . these concentration camps where men and women and children were starved, beaten, degraded, or worse. He's read a bit about the trials of the men responsible. But he's never met anyone who had firsthand knowledge.

And yet, here before him stands a living testament to the horrors of war.

Erik grins slightly, a threatening, predator grin, as he sees the understanding sweep over his face and Charles feels like a canary in a cat's cage.

"Not quite the person worth risking your life for, hmm?" Erik prompts.

Charles considers it. For a moment. Because that's all it takes. He's found _something_ in Erik, and he'll be damned if he lets it slip away over something as silly as Catholicism versus Judaism, British versus Polish, pristine genetics professor versus scarred Holocaust survivor. No, he decides, he doesn't quite care at all, even if Erik has spent a rather unhealthy amount of time honing his body and mind to become a trained killer, has hands and a mind and a body covered in scars from a terrible childhood, and whose first instinctive thought was to track the easiest way to kill Charles, never mind that Charles could freeze Erik with a single thought.

"The jump was more than worth it," he counters firmly. "I found you, didn't I?"

The response startles Erik. He's good at impassiveness, but Charles is a telepath who's spent his life reading people, and there – Erik's eyes widen ever so slightly, and he goes slightly still, and his eyes scan quickly over Charles for the first time in something that isn't judging weaknesses.

Erik pulls the shirt over his head and doesn't comment again.

Charles sighs inwardly, and promises to himself that the first thing he'll do is to try and alleviate this suspicion of Erik's. He's honestly _not_ reading his mind, not beyond that first touch that had him hurtling over the ship to save him, and he won't read his mind because Erik asked – well, yelled – for him not to. And he has a headache. And huge clothes that, until he gets his real clothes, will make Raven laugh all the way back. And he has to somehow find a way to convince Erik to stay, after he assures Moira and the rest of the CIA agents. And . . . well, the list goes on and on, and Charles's headache isn't getting any better.

Erik's looking at him funny, and Charles realizes that he just got asked something.

"Sorry, what?"

Erik studies him. "I asked you if you were done."

"Hmm. Yes." He hesitates. "I was trying to figure out to explain you to my sister," he explains, frowning.

Erik tenses.

"She's like us, Erik," Charles is quick to reassure him.

Erik relaxes, ever so slightly, but now at least's there's curiosity in his eyes. "What can she do?"

"Well, she has the ability to shape-shift and take on someone else's physical body. It shocked me, the first time she did it – she pretended to be my mother. If I hadn't been a telepath, I wouldn't have known the difference. So I assume she has the ability to control . . ."

And as Charles rambles on about genetics and DNA and cells, Erik at least does him the courtesy of not walking away or making faces or letting his attention drift. It's more than what most people will do for him, anyways, when he goes off on these tangents. When he realizes he has gone off on a tangent, he smiles apologetically and says, "Sorry, I have a habit of rambling. My sincere apologies."

Erik shrugs easily. "No, it's all right," he says, and he finally seems to have relaxed. He's even smiling slightly. "I assume your sister thinks otherwise?"

Raven answers that question by storming into the room and punching him for being so stupid as to jump over a ship, and she then proceeds to spend the next thirty minutes scolding him as though he's the one who's four years younger.

Erik stifles a smile.

Charles sighs, and resigns himself to his sister's lecture. _Yes_, he tells himself firmly, _the jump was worth it. _

_ Because of Erik._

And if that thought stinks the tiniest bit of infatuation, well . . . Charles is the telepath, not Erik, so who the hell gives a damn about it?

* * *

><p>AN: So, what do you think?

Sneak Peek: _Freedom in February_. Erik Lehnsherr thinks, sometimes, that he lost his freedom when he was about fourteen years old, a long time ago in a faraway land called Poland. Not when the guards pushed his family into the trains, not then. Or when he had a six-digit number tattooed into his skin. Or even when he was hustled into the camp at Auschwitz and separated from his parents. No, Erik Lehnsherr lost his freedom the second he fell into Schmidt's hands.


	2. Freedom in February

**_Freedom in February_**

~ _Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>Erik Lehnsherr thinks, sometimes, that he lost his freedom when he was about fourteen years old, a long time ago in a faraway land called Poland. Not when the guards pushed his family into the trains, not then. Or when he had a six-digit number tattooed into his skin. Or even when he was hustled into the camp at Auschwitz and separated from his parents.<p>

No, Erik Lehnsherr lost his freedom the second he fell into Schmidt's hands.

One coin, one bullet, one life – and there went freedom.

It's different with Xavier, he thinks, leaning against the wall of the conference room and watching as Xavier chats excitedly with his sister. Erik's seen the signs there; Xavier is from old money, considering the gold watch on his hand and the expensive suits and British accent, and he waltzes through everything as though it's nothing to be worried about. An academic, not a solider, who has no idea what war is really like.

And yet . . .

And yet Erik can't bring himself to hate the man. He clearly has far more freedom than anyone else Erik's ever known; even Raven, Xavier's sister, who turned blue and dared him with her gold eyes to comment, lives forever in fear of being found out. Xavier's mutation, like Erik's, in invisible.

Well.

Somewhat.

Xavier has an annoying habit of placing two fingers to his temple whenever he uses his telepathy, and Erik has honestly no idea why, because Erik _knows_ Xavier doesn't need to. He can guess why, that Xavier feels the need to broadcast his intent in order to seem harmless, and it's a good illusion, and Erik's not quite sure whether he's more angry or amused that he'd half-fallen for it at the start even though he's used the illusion himself more than once.

He remains cold and distant when Xavier introduces him to the CIA agents, although he does make a point to greet Raven. The "next stage of evolution" speech is pretty and certainly far more alluring that Erik cares to admit, but he can't deny that he feels a stronger kinship with Raven and Xavier than these – these _humans_.

But still. Erik is a monster. He's known it, accepted it, embraced it. A fox among chickens, he thinks, surveying Xavier with his soft hands and expensive clothes and slender frame.

Even among his own kind, he's a monster.

Erik handles the debriefing the same way he's dealt with the SS men he's snuck up to and killed. He's calm and cool and never lets them get the full truth. He's taller than them, and he knows how to use his height and posture to give off the _dangerous_ aura that makes the agents skittish and trigger-happy whenever he lays his eyes on them or even walks into the room. Raven shows no fear, but the girl's a shapeshifter; there's very little to read in a face of someone who can change it at will. And Xavier . . . Xavier lounges in his chair, easygoing and relaxed.

But then again, unassuming as he is, Xavier's still a powerful telepath. Erik gets his first glimpse of it when Agent McCone goes a little too far.

"Yet there's no record of where you were from, say, 1944 on to quite recently," the Director says obnoxiously, consulting the very thin manila folder. Thin, because Erik's very good at hiding and covering up his tracks, and he knows that as much as the Director does. "Do you care to explain, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

The man says his name wrong and says the entire thing with an air of condescension, and Erik's temper flares. 1944 is a year he will never forget.

In answer, he rolls up the sleeve on his left arm, smirking to himself as their faces pale and they instinctively shy away in an _ohmygodgladitisnotmeohmygod_ manner that Erik knows most people greet the tattoo with. It's why he prefers long-sleeved shirts and turtlenecks, or at least leather jackets over his polo shirts.

"As far as I'm aware," Erik says, quiet yet clear, "America has yet to begin acknowledging some of the horrors of 1944."

That's when the Director's eyes fog over, and Agent Stryker's, and Agent Platt's, and Agent McTaggert, and Erik realizes with a start that _they didn't hear him_. And they're not moving.

He snaps his head to Xavier, who has two fingers pressed to his temple and whose eyes are narrowed as he contemplates something Erik isn't seeing. Raven looks between him and Xavier, rolls her eyes, and slips out of her chair and leaves the room.

"Xavier," he says warningly, all menace and threats.

Xavier's eyes flick to him, and he manages a tiny smile. "I'm terribly sorry about that, my friend," he says. "I, uh, I know that you're not really quite comfortable with revealing some parts of your . . . past."

"You're not my friend," Erik retorts automatically.

"My apologies."

Xavier's eyes narrow again, and the agents blink and breathe as they are released, and Xavier goes back to fiddling with the buttons on his coat.

"I think that's it for today," Director McCone says briskly, closing the folder, his eyes suddenly clear and bored. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Lehnsherr. Glad to have you on board. We'll see you tomorrow, yes?"

Erik blinks.

That was . . . not the reaction he expected.

The agents are gone before he can leap from his chair, pin them against the wall, and demand the answers he needs. People react with _fear_ to the Holocaust, and people react with fear to him, and what was done to him, and what was done to his people. No one's ever brushed it off so slightly, it was like they didn't even remember . . . like they didn't even . . .

Erik recalls the frozen icy grip of the blonde-haired woman on the ship, and the memories she'd effortlessly tugged up.

Xavier lets out a startled cry when his watch magnetizes to the chair, twisting his wrist.

Erik stands, gestures, locks the door, and leans over Xavier. Xavier is at least half a head shorter than him, and the difference in height makes it easy for Erik to loom threateningly over the telepath, the metal in the room humming eagerly to come to his aid as he stares into the man's innocent blue eyes.

"What did you do?" he demands curtly.

Xavier tugs at his wrist, and then seems to give up. "I removed their memories for now," he says, nonchalantly, as though it's nothing. "You don't like to talk about what happened. They should respect that." His brow furrows. "They will respect it now, anyways."

Erik isn't convinced. Shaw had a silver tongue too, sometimes.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

Xavier looks at him. "It's quite obvious you dislike talking about it," he points out, and unwillingly Erik thinks of the changing room on the ship, when Xavier had caught sight of the tattoo and the blood had drained from his face before he'd said firmly that it was nothing. "There's no reason for them to be pushing you for information now. We can be debriefed when we've actually gotten sleep – you look exhausted."

Erik waves it off. "I've fared worse."

Xavier pulls at his wrist again. "Fascinating as this is," he murmurs, "this was my father's watch. I really would like it back, thank you."

Erik isn't sure who's more shocked when he steps back, waves his hand, and releases him.

Xavier looks a tad startled.

Erik's even more so. He's never considered anyone's comfort over his own, never tried to spare pain, never tried to show mercy, not since . . . not since Anya and Madga and the mob and the fire. He doesn't understand why he so easily yielded to Xavier's request, unless . . .

"Get out of my head," he repeats, remembering their run-in outside the compound the night before.

Xavier sighs and shakes his head. "I'm not _in_ your head," he says, in the tone of someone who's run through the routine more than once.

"Stay out."

Xavier eyes him coolly, rubbing absently at his watch, as if he's not bothered by the fact that a man who can overpower him in five seconds is standing right in front of him while he's not a single weapon on him. "Can you stop yourself from feeling all the metal around you?" he asks abruptly. "Feel where it is, what it is – can you stop yourself?"

No, of course not. He could be unable to see, hear, taste, smell, touch, speak – Shaw did experiment on some of those things – but even then he will never stop feeling the metal if it's in range. It sings to him, calls to him, and most times he can't ignore it. It's helpful, because most weapons are metal, but Xavier's right – even if Shaw was dead and buried and Erik's vendetta was done and he could live normally, he will never, ever stop being aware of the metal around him, and where it is, and what it is.

"Neither can I stop myself from feeling people's minds," Xavier continues, seeing the answer in his face. "Your gift comes alive at your order; mine just never stops, ever. The best I can do is distance myself and raise my walls until all I get is a low background murmur, but even so, particularly strong thoughts still get through."

It's an interesting take on telepathy, and Erik finds himself less angry and more interested. He wonders what kind of man Xavier is, to reveal such intimate details about his gift so freely to a stranger. Erik only gave the bare minimum: "I can manipulate metal."

He settles for, "You're too trusting."

Xavier shrugs. "It's an occupational hazard of being a telepath," he says breezily, but there's something in his eyes that tells Erik it warrants a bit more than the light-hearted tone Xavier is using to describe it.

He steps around Erik and opens the door, turning his back to Erik so easily that Erik stares.

He's never, ever turned his back on anyone, not even Magda. He doesn't think he'll ever stop expecting enemies to pop out at him, and he'd frankly rather be prepared for everything than to find out the one day he relaxes it the one day the whole world goes to hell. Xavier, clearly, has led quite a different life style.

"Raven and I have rooms just down the corridor," Xavier informs him. "Just pick any of the others that you want." He hesitates. "Good night, my friend."

Somehow, Erik thinks it's not quite what he meant to say.

"I'm not your friend, stop calling me that," Erik forces out behind gritted teeth, thinking those unpleasant thoughts of a cold hand stroking his hair and _you're my son_ and _such a good boy_ and _call me Father, please, little Erik_.

Xavier looks at him, almost sadly. "I'm not Shaw," he says. "It's your choice whether you consider me a friend or not. But _I_ consider _you_ one. Unless it makes you uncomfortable . . ."

Erik considers him. Xavier's soft and naive and simple-minded and weak and gentle and sheltered – but this is a man who threw himself over a boat into the cold and dark to save a stranger he didn't know. This is the man who wiped the agents' minds because he felt Erik was unhappy talking about his past. This is the man who shows him such easy trust and speaks so confidently that Erik can feel himself, just a bit, falling for Xavier's spell, and he can feel the powerful lure that's drawn people like the CIA to him.

This is the lure that drove him to stay, after all.

"No," he finds himself saying, and it's downright strange. "No, I don't mind, Xavier."

Xavier grins at him like a boy. "I'm glad you chose to stay," he says, and Erik's caught off guard – no one should sound that happy about having him anywhere near them. "And call me Charles."

"Whatever, Xavier."

"_Charles_," Xavier corrects petulantly.

"Charles," Erik mimics, matching Xavier's accent and tone with a roll of his eyes and drawing a bright, startled laugh out of the telepath, who wishes him good night again and vanishes into the corridor.

Erik watches him go and leans against the table with a frown, wondering what sort of mess he's gotten into now.

But at least one thing's different.

Eighteen years ago, in that tiny operation room, Shaw never gave Erik a choice – forced him to call him Father, to kneel and submit and do everything he said to do. He never had the _freedom_ to, and even now, eighteen years later, Erik's still bound to Shaw and the memories Shaw left him. He won't be free of them.

Charles, on the other hand . . . This time, _Erik_ made the choice to accept Charles, to allow himself to be called "friend", to place his trust, for the time being, in this untested man he knows next to nothing about while being surrounded by suspicious, incompetent humans.

But still, Erik had the freedom to make the choice. And that makes all the difference.

After all, ice only melts bit by bit during the spring thaws.

* * *

><p>Sneak Peek: <em>Match in March<em>. Charles eyes the chessboard contemplatively, wondering if he should even bother to ask around and see if anyone can play. It's one of the few good memories he has of his childhood – before "Uncle Nathan", before Kurt, before Cain – and of his father, teaching him the rules and beating him soundly ever time while a little Charles pouted and frowned and struggled to keep up. He's gotten better, now, but even now he's not certain if he's just really good or if he's picking up things unconsciously through his telepathy. Raven's not certain either, but she hates chess anyways, so playing with her is useless. That's when Erik says, "You play?"


	3. Match in March

**_Match in March_**

~ _Charles Xavier_ ~  
>Even telepaths can get bored.<p>

While listening to the thoughts of everyone around him would probably entertain him for a decent amount of time, Charles has long since learned that reaching out isn't hard at all – it's backing off, it's shielding, it's keeping his distance that is a problem. So he always practices that, whenever he can.

Only, with so many agents running around thinking so loudly about secrets they can't discuss aloud, it's so _hard_ to keep himself out.

And now he has a headache.

He wanders away from his bedroom, because it happens to be next to the meeting rooms where all the agents are running around and driving him _insane_, and wanders until he's in some sort of break room or something, but at least there's no one around him. Or, at least, only a few, and he can handle a few.

Now, he just needs to occupy himself for a bit.

Charles eyes the chessboard contemplatively, wondering if he should even bother to ask around and see if anyone can play. It's one of the few good memories he has of his childhood – before "Uncle Nathan", before Kurt, before Cain – and of his father, teaching him the rules and beating him soundly every time while a little Charles pouted and frowned and struggled to keep up. He's gotten better, now, but even now he's not certain if he's just really good or if he's picking up things unconsciously through his telepathy. Raven's not certain either, but she hates chess anyways, so playing with her is useless.

That's when Erik says, "You play?"

Well, Charles thinks, at least he knows his shields work, because he _should_ have sensed Erik coming.

Erik clearly catches onto the thought as Charles twists in his chair, still surprised, and raises an eyebrow at him from where he leans casually against the wall, arms crossed. "I thought it was impossible to startle a telepath," he remarks dryly.

"Yes, well, as much as I know we need the CIA to find Shaw, I'd like to know as few state secrets as possible," Charles explains as lightly as he can; he doesn't think Erik wants to know, really, about how _easy_ it is for him to reach out and just . . . take, learn, listen. The man's already slightly uneasy about Charles's ability anyways. "And besides, most people don't appreciate having a telepath stumbling along their inner thoughts."

The implied _like you_ is clearly understood by Erik. However, he does not back down or look away as others might have; he faces Charles with clear, unwavering eyes, as if to say, "And?"

It sends a little thrill through Charles's spine.

There are few willing and able to stand against him, considering how uneasy his telepathy makes people. Even if they don't know about it, they are still uneasy, and Charles has never been able to figure out why. It's gotten better, now that he's had time to perfect his nerdy old professor illusion, but . . .

It's true, Erik _is_ paranoid about his ability (it took him about thirty seconds after they'd surfaced to start, which Charles admits is a new record; even the CIA wasn't that bad, although to be fair at first they thought he was just a fake magician), but he isn't shy about it and doesn't attempt to hide it. He doesn't like the idea of Charles's being in his mind. But he likes the idea of having Charles as a friend, and although he requests Charles to keep out of his mind he does not attempt to hide from Charles, like a certain CIA director is.

The funny thing is, the CIA Director is still within Charles's range, and he can do a lot more than just read thoughts, but out of all things the Director's terrified of Raven. Charles really can't comprehend why.

Erik shrugs. "There are things in my head that no one needs to see," he says, and although his tone is nonchalant, it doesn't take a telepath to see the darkness in his tone. The implied sense that Charles is too soft, too naïve, too inexperienced in the darker matters of the world is grating, but Charles has been dealing with being underestimated about his childhood for years. Even so, it hurts to be judged like by Erik.

But he does not correct him. "Oh, I wouldn't try and see everything, my friend," he counters just as calmly. "Just because I _can_ does not mean it is advisable."

Erik reclines in his chair, one eyebrow raised in polite disbelief, rolling a black pawn between long fingers. "Everything."

Charles flushes. He knows exactly what Erik is referring to, the one word that shook Erik to his core and actually made him consider, seriously, killing Charles to keep his trail cold. However, it also helped convince Erik to stay, because Charles knew everything and still wanted him, and Erik's never experienced it before.

Then again, never has Charles.

"Well, I was perhaps . . . overestimating things," he admits a tad sheepishly. "I did get a lot from your mind, but I . . . compartmentalize, I suppose you would say. I haven't exactly taken a good look at whatever I saw just yet. I do know how you _felt_, but not necessarily _everything_ that actually happened."

Erik gives him a cool glance tempered with amusement. "I see."

There's a long, comfortable pause. Erik's used to being a loner, he doesn't mind silence. And Charles, as a telepath, craves silence almost as much as it repulses him. He hates being alone in his own head, he really does, because it makes him feel dead and so, so alone, but sometimes he really wishes that the background clamor of thoughts and emotions would just _go away_, so he wouldn't have to deal with the fear and disgust he is greeted with, considering who and what he is, and the people who know what and who he is.

"You said it was not advisable. Why?"

Charles looks up, surprised. Erik's floating the pawn in an orbit over his palm, almost unconsciously, like someone might play with a pen while thinking something over. But he looks . . . genuinely curious, which is new. It is also an improvement of his sneering indifference of the past day and a half.

"I would . . . lose myself if I was too deep in someone's mind," Charles confesses. "I might go so deep I might not remember how to get out. Or want to. I might lose _myself_."

Erik mulls it over. "So shielding is a necessity, then?"

"Yes, of course."

There's a faint sense of . . . of _surprise_ from Erik. He enjoys the power his mutation gives him, because almost all the world is metal and it's rare when there isn't a weapon within his reach no matter where he is. But he is well aware of its downfalls, and he does entertain some fleeting thoughts about what being a telepath would be like if he had Charles's power.

He enjoys the thought, at least, of doing what the blonde-haired telepath did to him to Shaw in revenge.

And he thinks that Charles must have no downsides to his power. He can blend in with humans, he's rich, he's young, he's soft, and with his power he could control everything Erik could not. Of course, the downsides of hearing everyone's thoughts never occur to him.

But Charles doesn't complain, because it's occurring to him _now_. Even Raven's barely at that stage, for all the years he's lived with her, because by ten years old he was very good at taking care of himself in terms of his life and his telepathy. Everyone else just sees his power and goes all wide-eyed and slack-jawed and immediately wishes for it.

Charles doesn't know, he thinks, whether he might have traded his mutation for something else.

It's part of him, after all, and he's good at it. But for silence?

Maybe.

"When did your telepathy manifest?" Erik prods quietly. He's still digging for information, and some part of him, Charles is sure, is filing everything away in case Erik ever decides Charles needs to be silenced. But yet, there's still that _curious_ and _concern_ and _interesting_ edge to his thoughts that tells Charles he genuinely wants to know.

It's not like he would have withheld the information, anyways. "I don't exactly remember. But I also don't remember a time when I didn't feel the people around me," Charles says, frowning.

(It had taken him so, so long to realize that normal people didn't hear thoughts in their head.)

Another thing that made him a weird child.

Erik nods, and his eyes soften the tiniest bit. "That must have been unnerving, as a child," he offers, a tentative olive branch.

Charles is rather ashamed that he takes it so quickly, but – really, this is _Erik_. There is more than one reason he tried so hard to save Erik's life, and then to make Erik stay, and Charles is not nearly as selfless as he appears. Charles knows that if he reacts wrongly, Erik will retreat back into his shell, and damn it all, but Charles will _not_ let that happen.

"I got used to it, eventually. My parents simply assumed I would grow out of it, and I did."

Erik's brows furrow. "They didn't know?"

Charles glances at him, watching the lights dance off Erik's eyes, sharp and piercing. He's like a camouflaged predator, seemingly so relaxed as he lounges in the chair, but Charles knows that if the slightest move was made, Erik is ready and able to leap off the chair and cause maximum damage in self-defense. The man's such a puzzle, and if there's anything that draws a telepath in, it's a puzzle.

"Did yours?" he counters.

Erik grits his teeth, and the pawn slowly settles back to the chessboard. "No."

Charles refrains from apologizing. He knows a little about Erik, but enough to know that the man covers his scars not because he's ashamed but because he hates pity. And he would interpret any apology as pity.

So he doesn't, even though he longs to speak and try and find a way and wipe that black look off of Erik's face.

"I had it pretty much under control by twelve or so," Charles continues instead, hoping more tidbits of information might induce Erik out of his shell again. "So it wasn't that bad. I did have a tendency for speaking beyond my age, though, and I had to learn to curb that."

Erik's lip curls, but not in mockery. "That explains some things."

"Like what?"

"You dress like a one-hundred-year old man, Xavier. And you _talk_ like it."

"I do not!"

Erik's eyes dance and his lips twitch, but he does not smile or laugh. Still, it's an achievement all the same.

Charles huffs playfully. "Fine, but you have to take it back once I beat you." He reaches for the pawns and begins arranging them, before Erik flicks his fingers and the pieces zoom from the boxes to land neatly on their squares. Charles grins up at him, and Erik seems . . . caught off guard. Like no one's ever treated his mutation as the glory that it is.

"It's _amazing_, my friend, I can't understand how you don't see it," he says.

Erik's expression softens even more. "I am a weapon, Xavier. Don't get used to it." But his tone is . . . placid. Bored. Calm. He's not even attempting to make it a threat.

"Well, you challenged, so I suppose – "

Erik waves a dismissive hand, and the chessboard swivels to place the white pieces neatly in front of Charles. "If you don't mind, I much prefer black," he says.

Charles gives him a playfully dubious look as he pushes a pawn forward. "I can tell. Do you own anything in any color _but_ black?" Erik's wetsuit was black, his polo was black, his dress pants were black, his turtlenecks were black, and even his leather jacket was a dark brown.

Erik's eyebrow climbs, and a black pawn trembles and moves forward. "Are you insulting my wardrobe, Xavier?" he says, in a tone that implies Charles shouldn't be the one to talk.

"You already look like you're going to disembowel the CIA agents with that look of yours, my friend. You don't really need the wardrobe." _It adds a nice touch though_, Charles thinks, but doesn't add that.

He also doesn't add how nice Erik looks in black, how the turtleneck clings to his arms and chest, how the black-on-black combination makes him stand out.

"Hmm," Erik murmurs.

They play mostly in silence, with the occasional surprised look or "Aha!" when one of them gets a particularly good move. But mainly, they end up in stalemate after stalemate, because even though Erik hasn't played in years, his grip of strategy, tactics, and planning is impressive, impressive enough to combat all the years Charles has played and practiced. They're almost evenly matched, with Charles's experience and deference to classic moves and Erik's ability to think on the spot and rather bold moves.

And Erik beats him.

"Checkmate," he says quietly, and with a twitch of his finger, Charles's king falls over.

Charles studies the board, a hysterical laugh building up within him. Charles has only ever lost a game _once_ in his entire life, his telepathy notwithstanding.

"Rematch," Charles says firmly.

Erik rolls his eyes.

They play long into the night, ending with sometimes Erik winning and other times Charles winning and other times both of them scratching their heads and wondering how they managed to get into a stalemate and finally shrugging and re-starting the game. But Charles doesn't mind. Erik's more than just a friend, he's an _equal_, he holds his own against Charles through the arguments and chess, and it's _exhilarating_.

They end the night after Erik beats him for the third time.

Charles can't help thinking that although Erik is so opposite from him in every way – bold to his caution, unrelenting to his submission, raging to his calm – Erik is still quite a fit match for him.

Perhaps, even, more than a match for him.

Charles is not quite sure where that thought comes from or what it says about Erik.

Or what it says about _him_.

* * *

><p>Sneak Peek: <em>Already in April<em>. Erik looks down at the unconscious telepath for a long moment, gritting his teeth. Then he hauls Charles into his arms and tells Hank and Raven to go get Advil, water, and pack up everything, and glares at them until they do so, because Hank's too soft and Raven too familiar with Charles for them to force the telepath to rest until he's better. Then Erik wonders, _Why me_? And then, much later, he wonders why he already thinks that way in amused exasperation, not in any sort of annoyance, which he _should_ think it in. He blames that on Charles.


	4. Already in April

**_Already in April_**

~ _Erik Lehnsherr_ ~  
>Erik admits that Charles is quite the puzzle for someone who's a soft academic, and while puzzles tend to annoy him unless they lead to Nazis or Schmidt, it seems that already the lure of Charles is beginning to sink in.<p>

Otherwise, he would not have felt that lurch of protectiveness when the telepath consented to a trial run of that infernal machine.

It's hard for Erik to suppress the instinctive revulsion and fear that wells up inside of him as he lingers outside the meeting room, listening to Agent Oliver Platt ramble on and on about this wondrous machine they want the telepath to test. Erik's developed a natural fear of scientists and experiments and almost everything in between, theoretical or practical. He's long since learned to associate that with Shaw, and so with pain and needles and blood. Yet Charles . . . seems to have no objections.

Which is why Erik steps in.

At first, he's tempted to just bang the man over the head with a chair, but when he steps into the room, Charles looks up and simply _beams_ at him with more happiness than any sane individual should have upon seeing him, and so he settles for negotiating to keep the CIA agents out of it as much as is possible.

Erik may be a monster, but he'll gladly be the bogeyman of the shadows if it means that his people will be safe. He knows that if he represents fear, which he does, then the CIA will be wary to attack him, and for now, that's enough.

Charles studies him, frowning, and Erik feels the tentative brush of . . . _something_, like a warm caress on his mind, sunshine against skin.

_Xavier?_ he thinks.

The telepath's lips twitch, even as the Agent argues against Erik, but Erik ignores him and thinks, _Xavier, you have to keep the CIA out of it. Who knows what they'll be willing to do to . . . our people . . . if they have their hands on a device like this?_

Charles frowns slightly, and the sunshine increases as Charles steps delicately into his mind. Erik knows that Charles could easily slip inside without any sort of warning, so Charles's deliberate broadcasting of his presence, while still not enough to keep Erik from feeling like an intruder is walking over his grave, is enough to reassure him that Charles won't try and change his mind or dig too deeply into his mind.

Erik pushes his reasons to the front of his mind, tying it with red flags and warning signs and his memories of the experimentations in the camps.

Charles winces, ever so slightly, his eyelids fluttering shut and open so quickly that if Erik hadn't been watching him he wouldn't have noticed. The sense of sunshine pulls away, leaving Erik alone in his mind, and Charles switches his gaze to the Agent.

He sides with Erik.

Something warm blossoms in Erik's chest, like the thawing of ice on a cold, imprisoned flower with the beginning of spring, and he softens the barbed wire and roaring pain and high, cold steel walls around his mind to say, gently, _Thank you._

Charles moves to his side as the Agent goes out the door, disgruntled but having no choice except to take their compromise.

"You think I need protection?"

Erik blinks.

But it's not exactly . . . false. The sense of warmth – it's like something tapping on Erik's heart, rapping out a constant beat of _Let-me-protect-you._ He can understand why, of course. Charles, for all his considerable telepathy, is very unassuming and seems rather mild and weak and vulnerable. But Charles saved his life, and Erik, despite being a murderer, does have a sense of honor and repayment.

The funny thing is, that's not the only reason, and for the life of him he can't understand why.

"You were ready to let the CIA loose on our people," Erik retorts. "I can't think of a more naive move. Are you sure you've studied tactics?"

It earns him a playful scowl. "I did beat you in chess, my friend."

"After how many games?"

Charles's scowl deepens, and he looks away, crossing his arms as though it will give his rather childish pout some mature weight behind it.

Erik hesitates. Playful banter aside, this is a serious matter. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I don't see why not." Charles chews thoughtfully at his lower lip. "I've read Hank's mind, you know, it's very organized and neat. He double-checks everything. I'm sure it will be fine. Worse comes to worse, he'll turn it on and simply nothing happens, that's all."

It's Erik's turn to scowl.

Scientific experiments with live lab rats are _never_ that simple. Ever.

"Hank isn't Shaw, my friend," Charles says gently.

"Hank is one of us. That agent is not," Erik reminds him. "The lure of experiments can do away with almost anyone's moral standards, Xavier."

Charles taps his temple. "I would know," he murmurs, "if they were going in that direction." When Erik still doesn't feel convinced, Charles reaches out, very slowly and cautiously, as if Erik's a wild wolf, to lay his hand on Erik's arm. It's the first time they've touched since Charles wrestled Erik away from the submarine in Miami, and Erik forces himself to quell the instant instinctive reaction to throw Charles back using his watch and zippers and buttons and anything else metal on his person.

Surprisingly, it's easy.

Mainly, he's shocked. Charles, he has already seen, is very tactile, his telepathy apparently causing him to be unaware of social norms in terms of desired personal space and dissolving normal boundaries. That, or he merely ignores what they consciously think and react to their unconscious desires, which Erik knows for a social animal like humans means closeness with others. But Charles has kept a careful distance from Erik, respecting his need for distance.

At least, up until now.

"I don't read your mind, or Raven's," Charles says earnestly, looking up at him with shockingly blue eyes. "That doesn't mean I'm blocking out the agents as well. I won't let them do anything to you."

Erik twists his arm away, strangely uncomfortable with Charles's close proximity; Charles steps back again, putting that respectful distance between them.

"I'm more worried about them hurting _you_, Xavier. I can defend myself."

But the words have no sting in them.

"I know," Charles says. He looks at Erik out of the corner of his eye, chewing on his lip again, and Erik suppresses the urge to sigh.

"What do you want?"

"Would you mind . . . I mean . . . I know you don't particularly like . . . experiments like Cerebro . . . or Hank . . . But would you mind, you know . . . if you don't want to it's fine, but I really think . . . there shouldn't be any problem with . . . Hank won't hurt me, his work is fine . . . I mean . . . you won't mind too much, will you if . . . "

"For God's sake, Xavier. You're a telepath. Can't you straighten out your own tongue?" Erik asks in exasperation.

Charles flushes, chastised, and blurts out, "Would you mind coming along anyways?"

Erik stares at him.

"I mean, it's all right if you don't want to, I know it makes you nervous – "

"You _idiot_," Erik interrupts, annoyed. "What the hell gave you the idea I'd let you go _alone_, Xavier?"

The fact that he still does not trust said experiment lies between them.

Agent Platt returns then, and pauses at the door, staring between Erik and Charles as though he worries they might rip each other's throat out. "Ah, am I interrupting – "

Charles straightens his sweater vest. "No, of course not," he says smoothly. "Lead the way, Agent Platt."

Charles is almost out the door before Erik's gathered his wits enough to realize he should move back to give the telepath room, but it's too late – as Charles passes through the door, he brushes against Erik's chest and arms, and it sends a jolt of warmth through Erik's body that's entirely unexpected. But the telepath doesn't notice; he's already plying the agent with questions and comments, distracting him, and Erik stares after him for a long moment.

He doesn't like having his personal space invaded, and yet . . .

Yet he didn't mind it, when Charles did it.

Telepaths are strange, he decides, and strolls casually after Charles, glaring at any agent who gives the telepath a funny look and finally looming menacingly in the background until Agent Platt finally decides to leave them at the staircase to Cerebro, because Erik does _not_ want the human there. He already knows that if the machine hurts Charles he'll have to keep McCoy busy as he rips the machine apart – it's all metal, a humming globe of shimmering power that makes Erik's fingers tingle as it calls to him – and he doesn't want to have to worry about pinning a silly human down too as he gets Charles out of danger. He's already vowed that if he has to knock Charles out and carry him out over his shoulder, so be it.

Charles gives him an exasperated look. "They're hardly going to tie me down to a table, my friend."

"You don't know that," Erik automatically replies, before remembering he's talking to a telepath and that that was probably a stupid thing to say.

Charles lets it pass and bounds up the staircase.

Erik follows at a more sedately pace, rolling his eyes. For a man who dresses like a one-hundred-year-old man, he has all the control of a five-year-old. No sane professor would go _bounding_ up the staircase like he's going to a fair, for God's sake.

When he arrives at the platform, Charles is studying some sort of helmet that's got wires going in every direction, while McCoy explains the machines and how they work to spit out coordinates.

Erik gives them a cursory glance. He can feel how they work, how the gears fit together and everything, and he's doesn't care enough to need to know the details McCoy is nervously relaying to Raven. Right now, his focus is Charles.

Charles, who is even now stepping under the helmet and adjusting it atop his head.

He looks far too happy for what he's subjecting himself to.

"What an adorable lab rat you make, Charles," he drawls, striding over to stand in front of the telepath and eyeing the helmet suspiciously.

"Don't spoil this for me, Erik."

Erik deliberately lets his gaze wander up and down Charles's body, knowing the telepath will get his unspoken message of _Are you five years old?_ "Oh? I've been a lab rat. I know one when I see one," is all he says instead.

McCoy pops in to check the helmet before going to turn on the machine.

Erik leans against the hand railings. He still can't get rid of that beating fear in his hear that something might go terribly wrong. Even Raven's gone quiet and pale, watching her brother as though she's never seen him properly before, and Erik can feel her nervousness and concern radiating off of her.

Good.

Maybe she won't object, then, when Erik rips the machine to pieces if it hurts Charles.

Charles looks at him and gives him a gentle, reassuring smile before closing his eyes and waiting patiently.

The machine turns dark as the door closes, and Erik steps back to eye McCoy, who is frantically flicking switches and pressing buttons and peering at diagrams in the background. The machine hums to life, flickering in Erik's senses as the metal begins moving, and he takes a deliberate step back to avoid accidentally crushing anything as he flexes his fingers nervously and watches Charles.

That's when Charles screams.

The helmet bursts into light, shining clearly, and Charles's eyes are open and staring so far past Erik and he's –

He's laughing.

The typewriter whirls into motion and starts spitting out numbers.

After that, Erik doesn't need McCoy to know that Cerebro has succeeded. For a moment, his fear begins to decrease. It obviously isn't hurting Charles, and there's a sense of warm sunshine in the back of Erik's mind that tells him the telepath is obviously enjoying whatever the machine is letting him do with his extended range, and the pure joy on Charles's face is . . . beautiful.

Charles may act like a child, Erik thinks, but his expression is of pure happiness, and Erik, for the first time, can't think of anything scathing or scornful.

He thinks, _maybe_, he might be able to tolerate Cerebro, if it gives Charles such joy.

Maybe.

For Charles, at least. Someone needs to keep an eye on him.

Erik usually has a good sense of time, but between watching Charles and glaring at Hank, it could have been seconds or days that he spends in Cerebro for all he knows. But when Charles's eyes grow strained – they haven't blinked that much, simply staring wide open and far, far away – and his grip on the handrails is tight enough to make his knuckles white and he stops laughing, Erik thinks that whatever amount of time is quite more than enough.

"Turn it off," he barks at McCoy.

The boy looks helplessly at him, and Erik's anger is enough to make the metal handrail warp ever so slightly.

After that, he scrambles to shut things down, eyeing the typewriter nervously as it continues to spit out coordinates. "Okay . . . shutting down in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one," he says, and throws one last switch.

The lights come back on, and the helmet dims, and Charles's eyes snap from being distant to being present.

_This is my new favorite place_, Charles says happily, bubbling with joy.

Then he collapses.

Erik leaps forward, his gift crumpling the handrails and allowing him the space to halt Charles's ungraceful descent to the floor. McCoy's at his side in an instant, fluttering uselessly, while Raven is chattering loudly and calling Charles's name. Erik ignores them both in favor of pressing his fingers to Charles's neck, and he lets out a relieved breath when he realizes the telepath's pulse is strong and steady.

Then he realizes that Charles didn't speak aloud.

Erik looks down at the unconscious telepath for a long, long moment, gritting his teeth. Then he hauls Charles into his arms and tells Hank and Raven to go get Advil, water, and pack up everything, and glares at them until they do so, because Hank's too soft and Raven too familiar with Charles for them to force the telepath to rest until he's better.

The telepath is surprisingly not too heavy, and it's easy for Erik to carry him out of Cerebro and through the compound until he comes to the telepath's room. He settles Charles on the bed as gently as he can, which isn't saying much.

Erik wasn't built for gentleness.

Someone knocks on the door, and Erik nearly slams the door against them using his powers before Raven pokes her head in and offers a glass of water and the pills. Erik takes them and sets them on the bedside table as Raven stares down at her brother.

"Can you stay with him?" she asks abruptly. "Charles doesn't usually get exhausted like this, but once he is . . . He'll be useless for a few hours until he readjusts."

Erik contemplates her. She is awfully trusting, considering that Charles is unconscious and defenseless and she knows almost nothing about him except that he's a Holocaust survivor and is trying to kill Shaw and can move metal with a flick of his finger.

Raven catches the look. "Charles trusts you," she says simply.

Erik sighs at the telepath's naivety, but he nods all the same. It's not like he has anything else to do, or that it's any trouble to watch over a telepath who's clearly out for the count. "Go comfort McCoy, or – or something," he says awkwardly, unused to extended conversation.

Raven scowls and skips from the room.

Erik settles into a chair and watches the rise and fall of the telepath's chest, the steady movement of his eyes underneath his eyelids, listening to the steady pulse of metal humming around the facility, and waits. The room grows darker as the sun begins to set, and he flicks on a small light, but the darkness doesn't bother him, and if Charles wakes up with a headache glaring lights will hardly help.

Erik would know.

Finally, after three or so hours, the sense of sunshine in the back of Erik's mind abruptly increases before departing completely, and the telepath's eyes flutter open.

"Erik?" he says groggily, sitting up.

Erik reaches for and holds out the glass of water and the pills. "Raven picked these up for you," he says by way of explanation.

Charles swallows the medication with protest or hesitation and drowns the entire glass. Then he rubs at his eyes sleepily, like a little boy, and seems to have no desire to do anything except lie back down and sleep until the next morning.

"How did we do?" he asks drowsily.

"McCoy has the list. I suppose we'll go off on our merry way sometime later in the week."

"Why not tomorrow?"

Erik glares evenly at him. "You just _collapsed_, Xavier."

"It's nothing a good night's sleep won't fix," Charles protests. "And some food. I just need to tweak my shields a bit, that's all. I dropped them when Cerebro turned on – it was _amazing_ – and when the machine was turned off everyone was a bit . . . loud. I just needed to readjust my calibrations for everything. I'm fine now."

"You look like you're about to keel over if you leave the bed."

Charles winces, rubbing at his temples. "Actually . . . you're probably right." He looks hopefully at Erik just as his stomach rumbles.

Erik sighs and stands wearily. He's hungry too, he realizes; he hasn't eaten anything since last night's late dinner, between deciding to stay and watching over Charles after he passed out. So that leaves him to go be the errand boy for the nearly comatose telepath. Excellent.

"Thank you," Charles says shyly.

"Don't get used to it, Charles."

Charles perks up a bit, and Erik backtracks instinctively, realizing belatedly that it's the first time he's called the telepath by his first name. Now the man looks like even more like that five-year-old – and Erik would know, he was around Anya long enough to see her at five years old when she was determined to be his little princess. It's rather distressing that Erik is not really as bothered that a twenty-eight-year-old man is using it for the same effect.

Erik wonders, _Why me_?

And then, much later, he wonders why he already thinks that way in amused exasperation, not in any sort of annoyance, which he _should_ think it in.

He blames that on Charles, but he can't stop himself from bringing Charles a huge cup of tea along with dinner just . . . well, just because.

* * *

><p>Sneak Peek: <em>Mission in May.<em> Charles thinks that with every time they run into Director McCone and Agent Stryker, their mission changes. First, it was to find Shaw in Florida, which then changed into rescuing Erik and regrouping. Then, it was to gather information on Shaw and regroup, which turned into recruiting more mutants to stand against Shaw's minions. And now, it's turned from recruiting more mutants to stand against Shaw into flying over Russia to confront him directly. This is how he finds himself thinking that at least Erik's mission, violent and ruthless though it may be, has not yet changed.


	5. Mission in May

**_Mission in May_**

~ _Charles Xavier_ ~  
>Charles thinks that with every time they run into Director McCone and Agent Stryker, their mission changes. First, it was to find Shaw in Florida, which then changed into rescuing Erik and regrouping. Then, it was to gather information on Shaw and regroup, which turned into recruiting more mutants to stand against Shaw's minions. And now, it's turned from recruiting more mutants to stand against Shaw into flying over Russia to confront him directly.<p>

This is how he finds himself thinking that at least Erik's mission, violent and ruthless though it may be, has not yet changed.

Perhaps that, more than anything, speaks to just how far gone he is already.

But he can't help it, and sometimes, he finds he can't even bring himself to even care that he can't.

Charles, after all, has never really had someone he could call as an _equal_ before, and it's exhilarating and intoxicating and addicting in every way. Raven's ability is useful, but compared to Erik's raw _power_ – it's not even close, and Charles knows that if Erik could simply harness the full range of his powers even Charles might not stand a good chance against him. And besides, Raven is his little sister, and has always been his responsibility. Erik is unquestionably an adult, comfortable in his own skin and mature and quite capable of taking care of himself. He is also very good at arguing with Charles, because somehow in between murdering Nazis and chasing Schmidt, he's had the time to become very well-read.

Erik is his equal and his opposite, all rolled into one.

Good thing it's rather useful. As they move through the streets and cities, they share their thoughts through the long drive. Well, mainly, Charles shares. Erik trusts him, but still holds him at arms' length. But that distance is beginning to dissolve now, and Charles intends to find his way through that barrier of hatred and pain and loss someway. Even if he can't use his telepathy, he'll find a way.

He promised Erik that he wouldn't be alone, and he intends to make that, of all things, his mission statement.

And Erik, at least, is beginning to respond.

When they track down Angel, for instance, the first of their recruits who accepts, Erik clearly wishes to know exactly what Charles projected that made the girl laugh, but seems content to let Charles fidget and refuse to disclose what he did. The bloody man even seems _amused_ by Charles's reaction.

"Too risqué for you, Xavier?" Erik drawls as they walk down the sidewalk back to their hotel.

"I may be wealthy, but I'm not the type to flaunt it, Erik."

Erik raises an eyebrow, and then he concentrates very, very hard on the first hotel they stayed at, complete with the room service and floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed for a very expensive view of the city.

Charles blinks at him.

Erik flashes a grin at him, filled with too many teeth to be a smile, but clearly amused all the same. "You did get the image, yes?"

"I . . . I thought you wanted me to stay out," Charles says, bewildered.

"I do," Erik states unapologetically. "But that doesn't mean it won't come in handy to know how to get your attention, now does it? If I remember your explanation about your telepathy right, by concentrating so completely on that, you would get the image, yes?"

Charles isn't sure whether he should be annoyed at the double standard or elated that Erik's remembered such little details.

"Yes. Most likely. Unless I was focusing on something else."

Something crosses Erik's face, like a ripple across a pond or a shadow across the grass, but it's gone too quickly for Charles – who has always relied on the emotional current of thoughts he gets through his telepathy – to understand without reaching out and touching Erik's mind, which he refuses to do.

"Something wrong?" he guesses, automatically expanding his range, deliberately opening himself to see if something or someone is around that would catch Erik's attention.

Erik studies him with pursed lips for a moment, shakes his head, tucks his hands into his pockets, and strolls . . . not quite casually, but as close to that, away. Charles stares, sighs, and wishes people were easier to read.

But it gets a little better.

Erik still refuses to let Charles read his mind, but he doesn't mind quite as much when Charles accidentally slips and he certainly is more than amused by having the ability to unsettle Charles without saying a word via projection.

Like when they track down Darwin, and after Erik lowers the gauge, he thinks, _You sounded like you were propositioning him. What _were_ you thinking, Xavier, cushions and wine and wooing?_

"Hardly," Charles mutters tartly.

Erik's eyes gleam with amusement. _Are you sure?_

"I know my own mind, Erik."

Erik studies him, almost considering, and Charles fights the instinct to shy away. Erik's always been able to give off the _dangerdangerdanger_ aura, but Charles usually can ignore it, because he knows his telepathy would protect him and because he knows it's Erik's default state to ward off potential opponents. Now, though, with Erik staring at him like a cat stalking his prey – it's a bit harder.

Armando interrupts, "Hey, what did you guys say your names were again?"

Erik's eyes flash back to the driver as he leans forward to smoothly present himself, and Charles breathes a sigh of relief. He wants to be Erik's _friend_ – he shouldn't be feeling that strange, curled-up warmth in his stomach at being the focus of Erik's attention.

It gets worse – or better, depending on your perspective – after that. They go to the prison that holds Alex Summers, and Erik allows Charles to calm him instead of lashing out at the suit's rather demeaning words about Charles, and Charles knows how much it took him to rein himself under and is slightly touched by Erik's willingness to leap to his defense, so he merely presses a hand to Erik's tense arm in a silent signal of _Please let me handle it_, and Erik stands down. They go to the aquarium and share a collective snickering fit over Sean's horrible attempts at flirting that quickly devolves into Charles shutting out Erik as much as he can because Erik's broadcasting every bad "groovy mutation" line he's heard Charles use in the bars. They get extremely drunk in Canada after being rejected by Logan – or, at least, _Charles_ gets extremely drunk; Erik's got the fortitude of a steel wall – and when Erik hauls him back to their hotel room, he's surprisingly gentle and treats Charles's next morning hangover with water and pills on hand, concern and protectiveness and a smug amusement mixing strangely in the emotions floating around him.

And they talk. And play chess. And, in general, become really close really fast.

It gets the point where, even without his telepathy, Charles can read Erik and Erik can read Charles, and it's actually kind of scary, how quickly they can think together without a single word or glance.

And Erik _relaxes_. Honest to god, relaxes, and actually opens up a little. In their hotel rooms and sitting in their cars, he's not afraid to lose the sunglasses, the leather jacket, the unnecessary long-sleeved turtlenecks. Charles gains tidbits, here and there, about Erik's childhood, although the camps are strictly off-limits.

But that's okay. Charles doesn't exactly talk about the entirety of _his_ childhood either, after all.

Then the call comes.

"We've got a lead on Shaw," Moira says grimly, and Charles nearly drops the phone in astonishment.

"What – How – What do – " he stammers. He's almost forgotten that the whole point of finding others like him and Erik was to get people together to fight Shaw and their allies. And he doesn't think he'd be wrong to say that Erik will quickly revert back to his turtle shell of cold steel walls and brooding anger if he goes back to the CIA.

Erik's head snaps up from where he sits across the room, lounging relaxed in a chair, arranging the chess pieces. His eyes narrow as he glances at Charles, and his protectiveness reaches out in ripples, sending shivers down Charles's spine.

_Charles? Are you all right?_ he thinks.

"I – yes – Yes, Erik, just – What do you want us to do?" Charles says desperately, clutching at the phone.

"Time's up," Moira says simply. "Get back to Langley, _now_. We need you and Lehnsherr if we're going to face Shaw. We _can't_ leave without you and Lehnsherr."

"Yes, yes, of course, we'll be . . . right there," Charles mutters.

She hangs up.

Erik's out of his chair and across the room in the blink of an eye. The phone slides smoothly from his frozen grasp and back on to its cradle as Erik deliberately invades his personal space, coming as close as he dares without truly touching Charles. It's still close enough for Charles to smell the masculine, metallic scent he's come to associate with Erik, to feel the tension and warmth radiating from Erik's body, to sense the worried, clamoring thoughts whirling through Erik's mind.

"Charles?"

"I'm fine. Just . . . never mind."

Erik narrows his eyes. "What's wrong, Charles? I can tell something is."

Charles takes a deep breath, and turns to face him. "They have a lead on Shaw. He's heading for a meeting with a general in Russia. And the CIA refuses to leave without us coming back."

Erik is silent for a long moment.

Then: "Well, of course not. Ignorant humans," Erik mutters. "Let's go."

The rest of the way back passes in a blur. Erik somehow manages to bundle all his stuff up, book two tickets on a plane, and haul him on said plane. Charles is too busy lamenting the return of Erik's rage-driven purpose to really put up much of a fight – or put any effort into speeding up the process.

Erik notices. "Charles," he murmurs, tone oddly gently, "you knew the reason I agreed to stay."

Charles stares out the window and doesn't answer.

Erik sighs, but says nothing else, and the rest of the ride passes in silence.

Charles is off-balance for the rest of the time there. He remembers, vaguely, leaving the plane, riding with Erik to the base, and sitting outside the briefing for Moira to come out. Erik doesn't speak to him, and he doesn't venture any topic.

Of course, the silence doesn't last long.

Moira comes out, all business, and Erik straightens from where he's leaning against the wall.

"The plane leaves for Russia in an hour," Moira informs them immediately.

"I'm telling you, these kids are _not_ ready for Shaw," Erik asserts, long legs easily keeping up with Moira's surprisingly quick stride. His mind is cold and brutal and practical, and Charles shies away from it. Now he's back to thinking of Charles and the others as mere _objects_, not people – not even _allies_.

And it hurts.

So perhaps his tone is a little defensive as he retorts, "You might be surprised; they're an exceptional bunch of young . . ."

He trails off.

Charles stares between the statue sliced in half, the shattered window, and the drinks and furniture littered all over the room, and despairs. Usually, as a telepath, he likes unpredictability, because when one can read people's thoughts they become terribly boring and predictable. But this time, he thinks, he'd prefer to avoid the mayhem.

Of course, it doesn't help that Erik's silently amused by the whole affair.

"What are you doing?" Moira shouts.

Angel's wings flutter to her back and she drops to the floor; Darwin's mutation powers down as he swallows nervously; Hank drops off the ceiling fan; Raven jumps guiltily off the couch; and Alex and Sean look everywhere but at them.

"Who destroyed the statue?" Moira demands furiously.

"Alex – "

"No!" Raven interjects, looking entirely too excited and not at all remorseful. "No, Havok. We have to call him Havok now. And we decided that _you_ should be Magneto, and you can be Professor X."

Charles, Erik, and Moira all stare. Charles, with exasperation and embarrassment; Moira, with roiling anger and confusion; and Erik . . . Erik's _amused_.

"Exceptional," he says coolly, and moves off.

Charles decides it's time for the children to remember that they _are_ children, and so he only says, "I expected better of you."

Later, as they wait for the rest of the troops to board the airplane that will take them to Russia, Erik leans close to him and murmurs, "You did not have to be quite so harsh, Charles."

"Harsh?" Charles repeats incredulously. "_Harsh?_"

Erik's lips curl slightly in a small smile. "Yes, harsh," he says, almost fondly. "They were merely getting to know each other, Charles. They should not have to hide their powers and – and conform to the human standards. Even in a CIA base."

"Forgive me for wanting the CIA to know as little about their powers as is possible," Charles retorts tartly.

A shadow passes over Erik's face, distinct and worrying.

"What?"

_That's my job, not yours_, comes the thought as Erik looks away and his face smoothes into impassiveness, and Charles isn't sure if he was meant to hear it or not. Annoyed, tired, and exasperated, he decides it doesn't matter, leans his head back, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

He's awakened, abruptly, when his pillow moves.

Except his pillow is somehow not the chair headrest, but . . . Erik.

Charles winces and curls away. Erik's thoughts have a coiled, tense edge to them that usually precedes him sliding straight into the cold, focused rage that Charles first felt in Florida. Perhaps it is that he was touching Erik, leaning against him, straying far too close into Erik's personal space for Erik to be comfortable. It's not the first time Charles has forgotten how his telepathy tends to make him overly tactile, or that Erik hates being touched unless he initiates it. Which he rarely does, anyways.

Well, yes, he'll grab Charles's arm to haul him out of bars and has sometimes even rested a hand on Charles's back as a warning to others to leave him alone or face the consequences. Erik's got a strange protective streak like that, and he does have the ability to make his body language scream _dangerdangerdanger_ to usually make the threat genuine enough that no one dares to cross him.

And if it makes Charles's heart flutter, the tiniest bit, at the closeness of Erik's body when he looms protectively over him, and at the fond-protective-caring edge to his thoughts when he does so, and just the _idea_ of Erik moving to defend him without calculating how it will help him, Erik's usual default for rendering any aid, then, well . . . Charles will cross that bridge when it comes to it. For now, he doesn't mention it, and neither does Erik, because Charles is a coward and he likes the sense of safety he feels when Erik is nearby and watching over him – even if Erik refuses to admit it – and doesn't want to get crushed by the most likely logical scenario, which is that Erik is simply wanting to keep him safe so that he can help Erik kill Shaw and not because he actually feels anything for Charles, and Erik hasn't talked about it because Erik . . . is Erik.

However, Erik rarely _initiates_ the contact, and doesn't usually like it when Charles does either.

But now – now Erik cocks his head at him as Charles rubs at his eyes, and a slow, small, private smile creeps across his face. His shoulders and arms relax, the tension seeping out his body and thoughts. _Finally awake, Charles?_

_I was tired_, Charles automatically replies.

Then he freezes.

"Erik, I – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," he babbles, drawing away, raising his shields and beginning to shut down on instinct.

Erik considers him for a moment and then throws his arm over the back of the seat, tugging Charles closer. _It's all right,_ he soothes, gentleness mixing into his thoughts. _You didn't mean to._

"But you don't like it when I do that," Charles says blankly, even as he gives in and curls closer to Erik, relaxing against the warmth and protectiveness and familiarity that Erik radiates even though they've only known each other for a few weeks at most. His telepathy makes him overly trusting, he knows, but with Erik he can't seem to remember that because he just feels _safe_ with Erik, despite everything. "You hate it when I touch your mind."

"Hmm." Erik's thumb brushes along his shoulder. "I don't _hate_ it, Charles."

"But you don't like it either."

"Let's leave me to be the judge of that, yes?" Erik murmurs confusingly. "Go back to sleep, Charles. We won't land in Russia for a while yet."

Charles closes his eyes, and decides that there's no loss to be had at this point. Very, very gently, he presses against the edges of Erik's mind, projecting his presence as best he can. Erik considers, and then his body shifts to accommodate Charles's as his mind whispers, _Very well. But do not go too far, Xavier._

Charles drifts off, cocooned in the steady warmth of Erik's arms and mind and sense of the humming metal around him.

He nearly jerks awake what seems like an indeterminable amount of time later, when Erik's thoughts spike with anger and protectiveness and _stayawaystayawaystayaway_. Erik's a tense, coiled spring at his side, leaning forward with aggressiveness in every moment, but even so, he has not left his seat, opting to remain where he can use his body to block Charles from the view of the agents currently harassing the metalkinetic.

" – nowhere near Shaw," Erik is saying curtly.

"He may be the only chance of stopping Shaw successfully," someone points out.

"_No_," Erik bites out. "Absolutely not. I will stop Shaw, and I will do it alone, and you would best be advised to leave it as such."

"Charles isn't defenseless, Lehnsherr," someone else sighs – ah, Moira.

A rumble of fury rolls through Erik's chest, and the seats and the plane shiver under the ferocity of his anger. "Out of the question," Erik states flatly. "Now go away before you wake him up."

"Lehnsherr – "

"I said, _go away_," Erik snaps.

Wisely, they listen.

After a moment, Erik leans back into his chair, fingers tapping restlessly on his armrest, mind flashing and clicking as he slots together plans and back-up plans and back-up back-up plans. Then he says, "Charles, I know you're awake."

Charles realizes, belatedly, that he's still lingering at the edges of Erik's mind, comforted by the hum of metal and Erik's steadying presence. He raises his shields, opens his eyes, and looks up at Erik. "My apologies," he says. "But was that really necessary?"

Erik studies him with pursed lips and darkened eyes. _The agents don't know the true capabilities of Shaw_, he thinks darkly. _I refuse to let anyone else get hurt due to someone else's hasty judgment, especially a _human's_ hasty judgment._ Here comes the faint echo of screams and pain, the crack of a bullet, the rush of anger and power – Erik's remembering how he lost his mother because he underestimated Shaw, and he does not want the situation to repeat.

"I can defend myself."

Erik shakes his head, quickly and abruptly. "I do not want you to be in a position where you would have to defend yourself, Charles. Please stay out of it."

And there, _there_ – it's that protective-concern mix in Erik's thoughts that sets Charles's heart racing. Logically, it makes sense for Charles to get involved; he has the means to counter the telepath and help subdue Shaw. For Erik to ask him, to _ask_ him, to stay out of it merely so that he is safe –

Charles clenches his fingers into his palms, needing the sharp edge of pain as his fingernails cut into his flesh. _Stop thinking that way, and _respond_, you idiot, he doesn't want you, not that way, shut up and stop thinking._ "I promised I would help you, Erik," he says, finally, when he's gathered his mind again.

"And you can do so by letting me know that you'll be safe and not blundering around into messes that I then must waste valuable time cleaning up," Erik says calmly, without flinching, his mind smooth and sharp, unwilling to back down no matter what.

But the joke is lost on Charles; Erik is _serious_. He wants Charles "safe" and it's a startling thought.

Charles slumps moodily into his seat, and Erik relaxes ever so slightly, his mind moving away from the desperate clamor of _ragefuryprotectiveness_ into calmer waters.

"Fine," he concedes with ill grace. "But then, could I ask you a favor in return?"

"What?"

Charles taps his temple. "Let me keep in contact with your mind. I can do so from a very safe distance, and still be in a position to help you." When Erik hesitates, Charles reminds him, "The telepath can stop you in five seconds, just like she did last time, remember? And what would you do then, Erik? What would you want _me_ to do, if Shaw captures you? If the telepath gets you, she'll dig out my location soon enough – "

Erik blanches for a second, and his mind splinters into _nononoNO_ so loud that Charles winces.

"Very well. But don't go any further than necessary, Charles."

"I won't." Charles studies him. "I promised you you wouldn't be alone, Erik, and I intend to keep to that."

"Hmm. But no more jumping off boats."

"I can swim."

Erik snorts, and the tension fades completely from his face. "_That_ was not swimming, Charles. I practically had to haul you out by hand into the lifeboat in Florida," he notes. "Whoever instructed you – _mein Gott_, I'm surprised _they_ didn't drown."

"Amusing, Erik, really."

Erik eyes him almost fondly, his mind a gentle murmur of _veryfunny,Charles-mustkeephimawayfromShaw-mustkeephimsafe_ so that Charles has to hold back the surprised, almost pleased shiver that erupts through his body at Erik's protectiveness and affection. "We'll add it to the list of things I need to teach you," Erik says, lounging gracefully in his chair. "Starting with how to shoot a gun. I wish we had more time – "

"Good Lord," Charles splutters, alarmed at the very idea. "_I_ don't. I don't need to know that."

Erik snorts. "For now."

"We're landing!" Moira shouts down the plane.

And as Charles buckles himself in and watches Erik revert back to his cool, calm, methodical planning, despite the impending death sentence they're about to impose, Charles can't help but think that for this mission, he can't imagine having anyone but Erik at his side for it. Even if Erik seems determined to keep Charles behind on the plane and strike out on his own for this mission.

* * *

><p>Sneak Peek: <em>Journey in June.<em> Erik doesn't like hovering. Schmidt used to hover in Auschwitz, after all, and it gives Erik an unbearable sense of claustrophobia when the CIA tries to hover over him and Charles. He can understand why, though. The telepath may project the illusion of a calm, centered, responsible professor – but Erik can see the too-pale pallor of his face, the raging mess of guilt-pain-regret lying behind blue eyes, the faint trembling tension in his hands. So after their journey back to the States is complete and during their journey to the new safe haven, he ensures that Charles is always within eyesight or, at least, a few minutes' reach.


	6. Journey in June

A/N: Not abandoned, I swear, just me being my usual slow turtle self in updating. I promise you, I will finish this fic. Sometime. Eventually. On another note, thank you to everyone who has reviewed!

* * *

><p><strong><em>Journey in June<em>**

~ _Charles Xavier_ ~  
>Erik doesn't like hovering. Schmidt used to hover in Auschwitz, after all, and it gives Erik an unbearable sense of claustrophobia when the CIA tries to hover over him and Charles – or worse, <em>between<em> him and Charles, as if they think he might hurt Charles. He can understand why, though. Charles may project the illusion of a calm, centered, responsible professor – but Erik can see the too-pale pallor of his face, the raging mess of guilt-pain-regret lying behind blue eyes, the faint trembling tension in his hands.

So after their journey back to the States is complete, he ensures that Charles is always within eyesight or, at least, a few minutes' reach.

Charles, at first, doesn't seem to notice – or if he does, not care.

Erik's fine with that.

On the other hand, this is raising some concerning issues of its own. God, but when Erik first realized that Shaw wasn't coming, he was astonished to realize that he was actually _relieved_. It isn't hard to see why – Shaw wasn't coming, so Charles wasn't in danger. Then, and only then, did the rage and the frustration set in, propelling him after the blonde telepath.

Erik has never, ever laid aside his desire for revenge against Schmidt for anything. Or anyone.

And Charles . . .

Erik regards all the needs of his body the same way – something to finish quickly, and get out of the way, and then to return to hunting Schmidt. But this low-level, constant thrumming of desire _hasn't_ gone away, no matter what he does. And Erik is honestly confused as to how to get rid of it.

The telepath has somehow wormed his way into Erik's heart and mind. Before, he would not have hesitated to use Charles as bait. Now, he practically forced Charles to promise to stay out of the way – presumably for his own protection, but Erik knows it's a lie.

He wants Charles safe for himself.

Schmidt would snap Charles up in no time, and turn him into another experiment. He would mar that pale skin with bruises and cuts; he would defile that lithe body with his hands and scalpels; he would take Charles's sweet, intelligent mind and twist it into a confused, hurt inferno of pain and fear and more pain. The way Frost kept her eyes on Charles with a greedy little smile of curiosity didn't help matters.

As if Erik didn't have enough reasons to want Schmidt dead.

It takes him an entire plane ride back, watching over Charles as he casts wary glances towards the tied up and drugged out Frost, to realize it, which is probably also not a good thing. It's usually not that hard. He makes up his mind and goes to a bar and grabs a few one-night stands, and then it's out of the way. But now, as he watches over a telepath he's only recently realized he's desperately attracted to, things are far more complicated.

Because he doesn't think anything he might do with Charles would be a quick and easy affair.

Even now, even unconsciously, the telepath pulls at him.

After the decision's been made to go to some place Charles and Raven know to train, Erik only has to look once at the telepath and see him chewing at his lower lip to guess his thoughts . . . and to feel that unexpected, soft yet powerful tug in his chest. "Charles, I can sense you thinking over here. Are you broadcasting again?"

Charles does it, from time to time, when he gets too excited or drunk. Or exhausted.

The telepath actually doesn't get that he's teasing.

Charles's brow furrows. "No, I don't think so," he says distractedly. "I've been maintaining my shields to keep Emma out and – what?"

Erik sighs. "Charles, really."

The telepath's blue eyes widen before he looks away. "My apologies, my friend. I'm a little out of sorts right now."

"A little?"

"Well, yes. Between reading Frost's mind and contacting Raven on the way back – "

Erik's startled. The entire plane ride back to the States, Charles alternated between pacing up and down worrying about the recruits after they learned Shaw had hit the CIA and sitting down claiming a giant migraine. He knew the telepath was trying – it was why, an hour in, he had gently but firmly insisted Charles take a break and had watched the younger man curl up and doze off with that strange mix of contentedness and protectiveness beating at his chest – but he didn't think Charles had actually _succeeded_.

" – and – Oh. Oh."

Charles has finally caught on.

Erik shakes his head. "After a few hours, we are stopping and finding a decent hotel, and you are going to go to sleep until tomorrow morning," he instructs the telepath firmly. "And no, you cannot persuade me otherwise. You're useless to all of us if you don't have the proper rest, and I know you haven't slept properly since we flew over to Russia."

Charles shuffles his feet guiltily, but doesn't protest, to Erik's surprise.

"You should sleep too."

Erik waves it off. He'll be good for another day, at the very least, and he does not intend to entrust their safety solely to the CIA. "I'll be fine. I have more experience with this than you."

"If anyone tried anything, it would wake me up," Charles points out.

Erik crosses his arm. "If anyone tried anything, it would most likely be with metal, and therefore I can take care of it," he retorts.

Something in his face or words must resonate with Charles, because he finally acquiesces.

They appropriate two cars from the CIA with a little help from Moira and Charles, but the CIA is still turned completely upside down from Shaw's attack, so it actually doesn't take that much. Then they drive, with Erik and Charles chaperoning Alex and Sean and Moira driving Raven and Hank. Charles is quiet the whole way, fingers clasped anxiously in his lap and dark circles under his eyes, and Erik restrains himself from reaching over to prevent Charles from cutting off his own circulation. He could, though, and quite easily – it's a parlor trick now, to guide a car with his powers considering how much is metal.

Finally, an hour in, he can't stand the quiet anymore.

A peek in the rearview mirror shows Sean snoring away and Alex dozing, but Erik decides to do things Charles's way anyways.

_CHARLES_, he thinks, as loud as he can without actually speaking.

The telepath jumps as though he's been stung, and then rubs at his temples. _You needn't shout quite so loud, you know_, he replies, his own voice practically a whisper.

_I didn't think you were listening to me._

Charles stiffens. Then, after a moment, he says, "My ability is not like yours, Erik. I can't just . . . stop using it. I'm always aware of everyone who is around me, even if I don't want to be. It's like the background hum of a crowd."

Erik turns it over in his head. "So you're always listening to my thoughts?" he asks, and his hands tighten involuntarily over the steering wheel. He told Charles to stay out of his head for a reason.

"No! No, no, I just meant that . . . I can tell that you're thinking, I just don't know about what. But if you think about me, it's like you're saying my name and I'm just across the room; I can't help but notice you're thinking about me." Charles eyes him almost anxiously. "I am staying out of your head, Erik. I promised you I wouldn't, and I don't."

"Except when I think loudly."

"When that happens, you're projecting," Charles disagrees, "and I'm not in your head, you're shouting from your head and I happen to overhear."

"Is that your excuse?" Erik teases.

Charles takes a deep, long breath and looks away, carefully folding his hands back in his lap, tension humming through his lithe frame. "If that's the way you wish to think, then think that," he says lowly, a resigned and defeated air in his tone. "I'm going to sleep."

"Charles – "

The telepath ignores him for the first time, closing his eyes and deliberately turning his body away as much as he can with the seatbelt restraining him.

Erik swallows past the sudden lump of remorse ringing in his dry throat. He's clearly upset Charles, and he can't really fathom why. He's never seen Charles get so touchy about misconceptions about his telepathy – a sharp opposite to people like Erik and Raven. Raven, for example, had nearly taken the Agent's neck off with her teeth in her glorious blue skin, while Erik had ripped apart an entire briefing room upon them accusing him of being merely a parlor magician taking advantage of the CIA – and only Charles's gentle touch on his arm had calmed him enough to prevent him from ripping out the iron in their blood too.

_Charles?_

The silence is almost deafening. Charles doesn't even twitch, and Erik's throat grows drier at the effort it must cost the telepath to deliberately deafen himself.

He's never seen Charles get truly upset, but he'd always supposed that Charles would act like Raven or Erik himself and lash out. His telepathy would be such a beautiful thing, unleashed with Charles's full power and fury. And yet . . . And yet Charles apparently is the type of person who shuts down and pastes a polite smile on their face and cries in a private corner, tucked away and alone.

But perhaps that isn't surprising.

Charles always has been infuriating polite, and as far as Erik's seen, he confides in no one. Well, he talks to Erik. He sees him as an equal. But that doesn't extend to anything Charles himself is concerned about. He'll worry and fuss at the second Erik appears in trouble, but if Charles is . . .

No, it's not that surprising, after all.

Erik turns his attention back to the road and wonders how to make it up to him.

Charles may deserve a lot of things, but he didn't deserve that. And Erik may be a murderer, but he owes Charles his life, among other things, and despite everything, Charles has become his friend and . . . possibly more. Not that he'll ever tell Charles, of course. He can be content with forever watching over Charles instead, though, and perhaps even live with the fact that Charles is certain to find a nice, normal girl and fall in love and be perfectly happy without Erik.

The rearview mirror squeaks alarmingly, and Erik raises his eyes to find that he's bent its support almost completely in half. Hastily, he fixes it, but not before it rouses Charles.

"Perhaps we should stop soon, my friend?"

His tone is completely cool and punctual, not a trace of accusation or chilliness. But he won't meet Erik's eyes.

_Can you sense ahead to the nearest hotel?_

Charles gives him an odd look. "Next three exits," he answers after a moment.

_Fine._

Charles raises his two fingers to his temple and bites at his lower lip, eyes going distant. "I'll tell Moira and Raven."

_Don't startle them too much_, Erik says, trying to focus on warm thoughts and friendship and show that he harbors Charles no ill will. He doesn't know if it will work, since Charles is apparently blocking him out as much as possible and now won't even touch his mind to speak into it like he's taken to doing after their encounter with the rude-mouthed mutant in Canada. Erik let him, that time, and hasn't corrected Charles since, and to be honest, he doesn't care to.

"Raven isn't driving," Charles says absently. Then his eyes focus. "Done."

_Why aren't you talking to me?_

Charles looks at him like he's grown another head. "I _am_ talking to you," he says confusedly.

Erik sighs. Charles has never failed to understand him before. Even without telepathy, Charles has gotten alarmingly good at reading him. _Up here_, he elaborates, and takes a hand off the steering wheel to tap against his temple in the symbol that's come to stand for Charles using his telepathy. He's not sure how, but it has, and he knows Charles won't fail to understand that.

Those bright blue eyes slide away and focus on the floor. "You don't like it when I do that."

Erik nearly groans. Charles said the same thing on the plane, and Erik thought he made it clear enough that it's bothering him a bit less for Charles to stretch out his powers – but clearly he wasn't clear enough.

He deliberately does not focus on his memories of the warm weight of Charles tucked close under his arm during the plane ride over to Russia, face startlingly young and innocent in sleep, and the heady surge of affection and protectiveness that still murmurs in his chest whenever he looks at Charles because somewhere in between arguing politics, playing chess, and treating morning hangovers, he's grown to care for the man beyond friendship. A great deal beyond friendship, such to the point where he thinks of Charles being hurt or – even worse – meeting _Shaw_ and – and it's like Auschwitz all over again, when he saw his mother die, and he knows, he _knows_, that he cannot, will not, let Shaw get his hands on Charles, who has somehow managed to become someone as precious as Erik's last memory of his mother is. But he doesn't _care_. He failed to protect his mother; he will not fail so with Charles.

And if he wishes, sometimes, at nights in dirty, little, out-of-the-way hotels, when he lies in the dark and listens to the soft sound of Charles's breathing, that he and Charles could share something more than friendship, well . . .

At the same time, though, Charles _is_ a telepath and he reads Erik's surface thoughts a great deal, even though accidentally, and he's not said a word about Erik's growing attraction to him where he usually wouldn't shut up about any subject he chooses to settle on – especially if Erik clearly doesn't want to talk about it – so he clearly does not want it or reciprocate it, and Erik doubts he'll want anymore reminders about it.

Not that that won't stop Erik from defending himself, if need be. He's not ashamed of loving another man, because they put men like Erik in the camps too, and if they did it, Erik is hardly inclined to think they are right. He's a Jew, he's a mutant, and he's a homosexual. And he doesn't give a damn about what the world thinks of that.

Funnily enough, though, he imagines that the world might embrace his powers over his homosexuality.

_Are you going to waltz through life catering to everyone's dislikes, Charles?_ he asks finally, unsure whether he's daring the telepath or merely teasing him.

Charles doesn't answer.

Erik resolves to find a better time – and way – to apologize later, and turns his attention back to the road. At the corner of his eye, he sees how Charles relaxes slightly, slumping in his seat and closing his eyes, and he feels that strange tug of _pain-affection_ in his chest that make him want to slap Charles for being so obstinately _moral_ about everything and want, at the same time, to kiss him and take him in his arms and make him Erik's so that the whole world knows to never go within ten feet of Charles Xavier. It's confusing, to say the least, but then again, Erik's never felt this way towards anyone before, and any story on love says it's to be expected.

In other words, Erik is doomed regardless.

"Charles, I – " he starts.

Sean and Alex choose that moment to wake up. "Dude, we're still going?" Sean mutters, rubbing at his eyes, at the same time that Alex demands suspiciously, "Where in the world are you taking us?"

Charles looks back, and his face relaxes into a gentle smile. "Almost there, boys. We're stopping soon for the night, all right?"

From there, Erik doesn't have a moment of peace. Alex and Sean, for all they claim to be grown up, bother the both of them every three minutes until Erik's more than willing to strangle them with their own seatbelts if it will make them _just stop and shut up_. (Charles smothers a strangled noise at that moment as if trying not to laugh, and Erik almost glares at him before realizing that it might drive Charles further away and instead confines himself to glaring at the road.) Then they have to park and find Moira, and Charles and her spend ten minutes sorting out rooms. In the end, it's Moira and Raven, Alex and Sean and Hank (something that Charles mutters about keeping an eye on), and Charles and Erik (although Charles is so hesitant to tell Erik that that it makes his teeth ache and he barely restrains himself from seizing the telepath and shaking some common sense in him). Then everyone collapses in the restaurant to order food and Erik shovels food mechanically into his mouth, mentally feeling for all the metal in the vicinity as he plots escape routes, while the boys and Raven dig in like there's no tomorrow and annoy Charles and Moira with question after question (although they are smart enough or scared enough to realize that bombarding him similarly will not end well). Finally, _finally_, around eleven Charles shoos them all off to bed, and Moira yawns and drags herself up after one last drink.

Erik looks at Charles, and Charles looks back at him.

"I'll be right up, I just want to . . ." Charles gestures in the direction of the bar and slips out of his seat before Erik can tell him that being hung-over will not help tomorrow.

_Oh, _Charles_, for God's sake_, he thinks, annoyed.

The telepath ignores him.

Erik sighs. He's not Charles's mother. The man is an adult, for all his naivety and tendency to be overly trusting. And it's not like he can be easily overwhelmed, because with his telepathy even Erik would be hard-pressed to successfully harm him. So he stands and leaves for their room.

He sets up the chessboard with a flick of his finger. And then waits. And waits. And waits.

Ten minutes pass.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Finally, Erik's had enough. Charles needs sleep, damn it, and if Erik has to crack the telepath over the head, knock him out, and tie him to the bed to make sure he gets it, he's perfectly willing to. Charles may have the more powerful mutation, but if he's drunk, he has less control, and Erik has the advantages of height, strength, speed, and experience. He's out of their room, down the elevator, and halfway across the main atrium towards the bar when he sees it.

Charles.

Standing at the bar.

Looking away.

And he's talking to a man – _rival_, Erik's mind hisses – who is . . . who is . . .

Slipping something into Charles's drink.

Erik narrows his eyes and stalks forward. When they had received the report of Shaw going to Russia, Erik had already taken one look at Charles's pale face and sworn that he would keep Charles safe from Shaw. He'll be damned if he lets someone else hurt Charles either.

Some of it, Erik concedes, is because he selfishly wants Erik for himself.

But the rest . . .

If Charles is going to get smashed and sleep with someone he picks up off a bar, that's just fine. It is just not happening when Charles is _drugged_ by that someone. Definitely not on Erik's watch.

Charles is raising the glass to his lips, eyes a little foggy and telepathy broadcasting lazy content, innocent and unaware, when Erik grabs his wrist and stops him. A flick of his fingers, and the perpetrator leaps back in surprise as his metal watch constricts around his watch, as Erik seizes the drink and slams it down on the table, nearly shattering it.

"What are you _thinking_?" Erik hisses to Charles.

He regrets it when Charles shrinks back, clearly taken off guard, broadcasting surprise and fear and confusion. He knows that Charles's control goes a little . . . away when the telepath is drunk, and he's less able to consciously use it, other than broadcasting his emotions. So Erik actually should not be surprised that Charles didn't sense the man's intent to drug him. Charles can only sense danger to himself when drunk if it's something major, like someone aiming a gun at his head.

But enough of this.

Erik whips his gaze to the man clawing at his too-tight watch, and he steps forward, shielding Charles from view. "I think you should probably leave now," he says, softly and menacingly, and he relishes the fear in the human's eyes.

Only a _human_ would dare to try and harm someone like Charles. Ignorant fool.

The man swallows, sweating profusely, and pulls himself upright. "I didn't know you brought a friend, Chuck," he says, regaining his confidence, leering at Charles in a way that makes Erik bristle with fury and the need to tear this presumptuous insect into pieces. No, scratch that. Into _atoms_. He can do it – he can feel each bright pulse of iron in this human's bloodstream. It would take but a second's work –

"His name is Charles," Erik snaps, "and you will leave him alone." Erik raises the drugged drink. "Try it again," he continues softly, "and you won't get off so easily."

"Why, you little – "

Erik flicks his fingers and pulls the man's feet out from under him. Then, because he's wasted enough of his time on this worthless _human_, he wraps his hand around Charles's arm and pulls him out of the bar, tugging at Charles's watch and cufflinks and shoe eyelets to make sure the telepath comes. He drags Charles over to the elevator and then, without ceremony, slams him into the wall.

"What were you doing?" he hisses, furious and beside himself for reasons he can't fully understand.

Charles is an adult. And a quite powerful telepath. He can take care of himself.

(But, that little treacherous part of Erik whispers, Erik doesn't want Charles to have to. Erik wants to keep Charles safe. He wants to look at Charles, and _know_ that he is protected because _Erik_ is the one protecting him.)

Charles blinks up at him. "I didn't know," he admits in a hushed tone.

"Oh, really?" Erik snarls.

That's when Erik realizes that he's practically smothering the telepath, clutching him so close that he's surprised Charles can still breathe. He's even _more_ surprised that Charles isn't fighting it, and instead is merely clinging to him like he's a life raft in an ocean, hands fisted tight in Erik's shirt almost as if to drag him closer instead of trying to push him away.

Erik takes a long, slow breath, memorizing the feel of Charles wrapped safely in his arms, and then pushes away gently.

"Come inside," he says, and Charles follows without protest to their room when the elevator opens.

Once inside their room, he sits opposite Charles on the bed, crosses his arms, leans against the headboard and says, "Now, are you going to explain to me what just happened, or am I going to have to find that man and drag it out of him? Do not think I won't, Charles." _Especially if he's hurt you, which he nearly did._

Charles fidgets under his gaze. "Well – I – I'm sorry, I know you don't like me touching you, but – "

"Charles," Erik says in exasperation. "Not _that_." _I initiated that_, he thinks, but doesn't say, guilt and lust fighting frantically in his gut.

As much as Erik is curious as to why the telepath relaxed in his hold instinctively when he was afraid, he's not quite willing to go down that road, because it will wreak havoc on his ability to keep his attraction to Charles shoved out of sight.

"Oh." Charles shrugs, pressing the cloth against his bruise. "There's not really much to explain. I . . . got drunk." He winces as he pulls his legs underneath himself and settles on the bed. "And the next thing I knew, you were there and . . . that's it."

"Did he hurt you?" At Charles's look, he adds, "Beyond the obvious."

Charles shakes his head, and Erik lets out a long breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

"Thank you," Charles offers shyly.

Erik crosses his arms. "Don't thank me, thank yourself," he says shortly. "If you hadn't been broadcasting – "

"I was _what_?"

"How do you think I knew where to look for you?"

Charles closes his eyes, reaching up to press fingers to his temple –

Erik flicks a finger and catches Charles's watch. "None of that," he orders. "Your control is already shot. And besides, if you'd broadcast it to the entire hotel, Raven would be breaking the door down right about five minutes ago."

"Oh. Yes. Probably," he agrees sheepishly. He peeks at Erik like he's a shy six-year-old girl. "You came after me."

"Of course I would, you fool," Erik says roughly. "You were in trouble."

There's a long moment of silence.

Then: "I'm sorry."

"And well you should be, for nearly giving me a heart attack," Erik automatically replies.

Charles flinches. "That too."

"Did you – Wait, what?" Erik stares at him, digging back through the conversation and wondering what the telepath is referring to. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well – I – I know you don't like it when I touch you."

_Oh, Scheiße._ Erik pushes himself upright from where he's leaning against the wall. Charles knows of his attraction to him, and now he's apologizing for encouraging it. That puts a definite sour taste on Erik's tongue. "I understand if you want me to find another room for tonight," he says stiffly, casting about for his bag and carefully avoiding Charles's eyes.

He's not expecting Charles to grab his arm and exclaim, "What? No, Erik, that's not – "

Erik rounds on him, his patience finally exhausted. "Don't encourage me when you don't want it," he hisses.

The telepath tilts his head. "Don't want . . ."

Erik curses. If anything, he hates explaining himself, and Charles looks too damned irresistible for his own good. "Damn it, Charles, of all the times to not be reading my mind, could you not accomplish it this time?"

"But I _don't_," Charles protests, hanging on to Erik's arm with determination. "I don't know what – "

He stops abruptly, just as Erik becomes aware of that faint sensation of sunshine in the back of his mind that signals that Charles is reading his mind. He shakes Charles's grip off his wrist and forces his face to settle back into impassiveness. Charles does not want him, and that is final, and Erik really needs to leave before his control snaps and he shoves Charles back onto the bed and has his way with him anyways.

That's about when Charles surges forward and _kisses him_.

He manages an eloquent "What?"

Charles looks at him. "Did I misread you?" he asks, coiling backwards.

Erik's hand snaps out before he can stop himself, pulling the telepath back against his chest. "You honestly didn't know?" he finally asks, wrapping his arms tightly around Charles and relishing in the warm weight of him safely in his arms.

"I really don't read your mind unless you ask me, Erik."

"I thought you knew."

Charles's eyes flick up to his. "No. I thought you didn't want me."

Erik wants to smack himself. Or Charles. Or perhaps both of them are equally idiots in this case. "How could you ever think that?" he asks incredulously, because Erik isn't very good at being subtle when there's something he wants and he knows it. And how could someone _not_ want Charles, if he wanted them?

"Well . . . You kept pushing me away."

That's true too, actually, Erik realizes. It was part of his attempt to keep Charles at an arms' length by ensuring that someone else would be there to remind him that he couldn't simply seduce the man into his bed like he'd wanted too. Ached to, and probably very easily could have, because Charles was a lightweight and Erik rarely didn't get what he wanted whenever he bothered to turn on the charm. But he hadn't, because of Charles.

Charles laughs as the thought crosses Erik's mind. "God, Erik, really? I don't need you to protect what's left of my virtue."

Erik thinks loudly of the drugged drink.

"I was in no danger. You came after me," Charles says dismissively, settling against Erik as if he has no intention to ever leave. "I was perfectly fine."

"Indeed," Erik says dryly. He presses a careful kiss to Charles's head before pushing him back down on the bed. Then he strips and changes into sleeping clothes as Charles merely tugs off his cardigan and oxford and shoves his face into the pillow. Erik smiles ruefully at him and then settles next to him, pulling the covers carefully over them both, even as Charles snuggles impossibly closer. "Perhaps now would be a good time to remind you that I don't like sharing," he says quietly, sliding his arms around Charles's slender frame.

_Because there would be an occasion for sharing_, Charles says scornfully.

_What do you mean?_

Flashes of memory erupt in front of Erik's eyes, blonde, brunette, red-head, blonde, blonde, brunette – on and on through Charles's various bed partners. But never, he realizes suddenly, any _man_.

"You've never – " he begins, slightly startled and not quite sure why.

"Not to bed." Charles offers him a cheeky smile. "You would be my first," he adds tentatively.

Erik tightens his arms briefly. "First and _last_."

"First and last," Charles agrees.

Charles closes his eyes, and a sense of laziness steals over Erik – Charles projecting again, he realizes. But it doesn't bother him, because he's still struggling to process the fact that Charles wants him – _has_ wanted him, and has just pledged to Erik's terms despite never having any prior experience with a man in bed.

_And what kind of person _wouldn't_ agree, if they could have you?_ Charles murmurs.

_Many._

Charles snorts in disbelief. Then Erik is bombarded by another surge of feeling – a mix of affection, wonder, sympathy, desire, and _safe_. It can't be described by any words, really, but that's the best way Erik can put it. Charles is drawn to him, inexplicably, by Erik's power and by his desire for Erik, and layering through all of that, Charles feels _safe_ around him, safe laced with wonder and awe and fear, as though he's never felt safe before and hopes, deep down inside, that Erik will never go away.

It does not help with Erik's possessive tendencies, and he finds himself curling instinctively and protectively around Charles's body before he can stop himself, ensuring that no one could possibly reach Charles without waking Erik.

_Your image of me is quite distorted._

_No_, Charles says firmly, _it is not. That is who you are, Erik. That's how I see you._

_Well, you see me wrong_, he says, reaching out to ensure that the door is locked before turning the lights off.

_No, I don't think so._

Erik sighs, and Charles squirms closer to kiss Erik's throat sleepily before he yawns.

_Go to sleep_, Erik tells him. _You need it, if you intend to bring guide us to wherever you're taking us tomorrow. I will be here when you wake up, I promise_, he adds teasingly – but not quite teasingly, because he can feel the fear thrumming through Charles still, the fear that Erik will laugh in his face and tell him it's a joke and leave and Charles will have to go back to pretending everything is okay while on the inside he's confused and lost.

Charles relaxes, and Erik feels the gentle thrum of iron in his blood slow as he starts to drift off to sleep. He's still amazed at just how much Charles _trusts_ him; he would not be willing to sleep so easily in another's arms, even though he could very easily overpower Charles, since Charles is stunningly unwilling to use his telepathy offensively.

But then again, Charles has amazed him in many ways, so perhaps this is not so amazing.

_You would never hurt me_, Charles whispers into his mind, that same strange _safe_ feeling winding through his words.

_And no one else ever will_, Erik pledges, because for some reason, he knows it's what Charles needs to hear – not perhaps what he consciously wants Erik to say, but there's something in Charles that needs him to say it anyways, and Erik doesn't like that thought, but it's nothing hard to make the pledge because he really does not intend to ever let anyone else lay a finger on Charles that Charles does not want. It helps, of course, that Erik knows that Charles could easily stop him with a thought if Erik goes too far.

_You wouldn't._

_You have my permission to stop me, if I go too fast_, Erik says firmly, because Charles has issues with doing the right thing if he thinks it violates people's privacy. _Promise me, Charles._

A wave of incredulity rolls through him. _You know me well enough, Erik. You wouldn't hurt me._

_I mean it, Charles, _promise me_._ To make his point, he loosens his grip around Charles's body. _Otherwise, I will refuse to go any further with you. You have the power to stop me if something goes wrong; make sure you _use_ it._

"But that would be – " Charles protests verbally, eyes flickering open.

Erik sets his forehead against his. "And if you did not stop me, then what? Would that not be a violation of privacy as well?" he points out.

Charles fidgets.

Erik sighs. "Charles, you and I both know I have a tendency for violence. I break more things than I fix. Do not let me break you too." _Because it would destroy the both of us, and I . . . do not want to lose you._

_Fine. I promise_, Charles says sulkily. _But I will say that I doubt I will ever have to do anything._

"You might be surprised, Charles. You have no experience."

The telepath flinches.

Erik automatically relaxes his hold and backs away before realizing –

"You little cheat," he growls.

Charles laughs quietly, eyes glowing with mischief. "See?" he says seriously. "You couldn't hurt me, even if you were trying, Erik. It's true, you know very well how to cause me pain – but _you don't_. I _flinched_, and you were ready to leave this room to ensure I would be fine, Erik, don't deny it." He exhales and closes his eyes again. _Now come back here and sleep._

Erik grumbles, but he presses a kiss to Charles's forehead and pulls the telepath back into his arms in a motion that's becoming disturbingly familiar. He wants to hold Charles, and keep holding him, and somehow, by some miraculous miracle, Charles wants him to hold him.

_It's more a miracle that _you_ want _me, Charles tells him, half-asleep already.

Erik chooses not to comment on that. Charles hasn't even seen his bare arms yet, never mind the rest of him. He knows that he's nowhere near as beautiful as Charles thinks his mind is, as _Charles_ is, with his pale, soft, smooth, unmarred skin and bright blue eyes and slender, lithe frame that belies his seemingly scholarly image. But that's okay for now. He has time – some time, and Erik's been good at making the best of what little time he has – and he'll correct Charles of his ridiculous notions of self-worth later. So he settles for, _Where are we going, Charles?_

A fuzzy image of sunlight and trees and a giant lake comes to Erik's mind, tangling with the image of a giant mansion and cold steel walls and a kitchen and –

Erik shakes his head in amusement. _Charles, just tell me, you're broadcasting all over the place._

"Westchester, New York," Charles says sleepily. Then his breath evens out, and he drops off to sleep, face smoothing out and leaving him looking as innocent and young as a teenager – which is why, Erik supposes, he's driven to dress like a grandfather, because otherwise no one would take him seriously.

_A long journey_, Erik thinks, mentally calculating how long it will take for them to get there and then calculating how much he can push the cars to get them there just a little faster. Then he looks at Charles, lying trustingly and contentedly in his arms, and smiles, bending his head to press another kiss to Charles's head, as the telepath murmurs and curls ever closer. _But a journey I am willing to make with you and for you, _mein schatz_._

* * *

><p>Sneak Peek: <em>Jealously in July.<em> It's probably a bad thing that it isn't until Charles catches flashes of Moira's thoughts about Erik being rather curt and rude before he realizes that Erik's been acting distant and cool for the past three days. It's probably even worse that it takes a brush with Erik's mind during their ritual chess games to realize – "Erik, are you _jealous_ of Moira?"


	7. Jealously in July

**_Jealously in July_**

~ _Charles Xavier_ ~  
>"Honestly, Charles. I don't know how you survived, living in such hardship."<p>

Once, Charles might have withdrawn from Erik – his face is set in a smirk and a raised eyebrow, and his tone is nothing short of condescending. But now, with Erik allowing him to linger in the back of his mind, Charles merely raises an eyebrow in return, sensing the hidden playfulness in Erik's remark.

It does not, however, mean that Raven doesn't step up. "Well, it was a hardship softened by _me_," she says.

Charles winds an arm around her waist and kisses her. They have their disagreements – often – but she's still his sister and he's still her brother. He just hopes one day that she'll be able to understand that he honestly does not care what skin she wears, because if there was anything she taught him, it was that family trumps everything else. And although he can fend for himself where Erik is concerned, he's touched that she is willing to close ranks with him at the perceived threat to his family.

"Come on," Raven says cheerfully. "Time for the tour."

She slips out from underneath his arm, and the rest follow her, Alex and Sean still staring with their mouths open, Moira looking startled and trying to conceal it, and Hank busy calculating the various values of half the property.

Charles looks back up at the mansion, and tries to convince himself that he doesn't regret coming here. There's a reason that as soon as he was old enough that the Xavier estate came under his control he took off as far away from Westchester as he could – first to Harvard, and then to Oxford. As heir to the Xavier estate, he could easily afford to hold condos and apartments instead of living on campus or at home, and he took that opportunity as fast as he could. He doesn't hate his familial estate, he just . . . doesn't have quite positive associations with it.

Like "Uncle Nathan". And the secret lab next to the bunker. And the bedroom in the East Wing that used to be his.

He squeezes his eyes shut. It's been over a decade, and he can still remember the slicing pain of his father's scientific curiosity and his mother's distinct apathy towards his fate. He can even remember his "uncle's" face, full of unholy glee as he poked and prodded, and now so similar to Erik's memories of Schmidt that he can't think on it without shuddering, which is a problem, because almost every waking moment of Erik's is concentrated on Schmidt somehow.

It's a good thing, he reflects, that he's spent these last few weeks blocking Erik out in an attempt to prevent his own feelings from leaking over.

A hand lands on his arm, and Charles jumps before he can stop himself. It's been years since Kurt was at the mansion, but the response is ingrained in him now – a touch usually is followed by a slap.

"Charles?"

Erik's face is an unusually open study of concern as Erik glances down at him. Charles manages to muster a small smile.

"I'm just tired, my friend."

Erik tilts his head and then crowds into his space, his hand slipping to rest over Charles's hip in that subtly possessive way he has been displaying more and more since they finally admitted their own feelings to each other. Charles knows that Erik is giving him a gift by letting Charles in and letting him see the strength of Erik's affection for him, because Erik is by nature a very reserved man, but he isn't quite up to revealing some of the darker secrets in his past yet. Even if he knows, logically, that Erik might be the best person to understand them.

"You're lying," Erik says quietly, and Charles lets his eyes drop.

He just isn't ready to talk about this. Only one person alive other than Charles knows what happened to him, and Charles hasn't seen him since the fire. And he's not quite sure how to tell Erik that his childhood wasn't as soft as the mansion implies.

Thankfully, Erik seems to understand that. His eyes grow warm and soft, and he rests his other hand at Charles's neck, thumb stroking rhythmically against his cheek. "When you're ready," he murmurs. The implied _You can tell me anything_ hums through Erik's mind, flavored with protectiveness and devotion, and Charles closes his eyes and basks in it. He's been the older brother, the sole and only child, for so long that it seems like he's never had anyone with whom he can just _relax_ and trust to catch him when he falls.

And yet with Erik, he's free to be nothing more than who he is, no expectations at all. He doesn't have to be strong for Erik. He just has to be himself.

_Thank you_, he murmurs into Erik's mind.

The corner of Erik's lips curl upward in response, and then he backs out of Charles's space respectively, giving him the space he has asked for, with only one last heated glance that serves to make Charles blush, remembering the night before.

"Are you coming or not?" Raven yells from somewhere ahead.

Erik sets his hand at the small of Charles's back and pushes him forward. Then he says, _Are you going to show me your room, or I am going to have to wait until tonight?_

_You still have to choose a room, Erik._

Erik laughs, his smile full of teeth, and he leans close as he opens the door, bending just enough to place his mouth in the vicinity of Charles's ear. "Perhaps. But I wouldn't be sleeping in it, would I, Professor?"

Charles chokes and nearly stumbles over the door. He doesn't understand, sometimes, why he didn't realize just how Erik felt about him until he let Charles kiss him, because Erik _is_ right, he realizes – Erik is _very_ unsubtle when there is something or someone he wants, and just as fiercely territorial and possessive.

_Tonight_, he agrees, feeling his face flaming with color.

Erik laughs at him and then jogs off after the kids to choose a room without a backward glance.

The first day is a blur of settling people into rooms. Charles hasn't been back to Westchester since he left after graduating from Harvard, and Kurt had made a dent in the serving staff, so practically everything's still covered in drapes and dusty and definitely need a suitable amount of time to air out. The food stock is alarmingly low, what with there being three ravenous teenage boys in the house, and Charles starts making a mental tally of what he needs to get when he goes shopping. And he has to keep his mind open, always, because someone is usually getting lost somewhere, and he spends a lot of time guiding people around as subtly as he can, although thankfully not with Erik, who spends most of the day with Charles or staking out the mansion.

So when night comes, even though Charles arrives at the study first and gets the fire and drinks and chessboard ready, it's no surprise to him that within minutes he's blinking sleepily, farther and farther apart until . . .

". . . Charles?"

He jerks upright when someone touches him on the shoulder, rubbing frantically at his eyes – but oh.

"Hello, love," he says groggily to Moira.

She gives him a soft smile. "It's been a long day. You should probably get some sleep, Professor, why don't – "

"I'll make sure he gets there in one piece, MacTaggert," says a cool voice from the doorway.

Ah.

Erik.

Who is leaning casually against the door, grey eyes warm as they rest on Charles's face, arms crossed, face impassive, the perfect replica of a stalking predator sure of catching his dinner. It sends a low heat curling in Charles's belly, and he pushes himself to his seat and gives Moira a perfunctory, if absent, kiss on the cheek before heading over to Erik, who straightens and shuts the door behind them.

"You're broadcasting," Erik observes.

Charles tries to stop it, but another yawn cracks through his self-control, and he leans against the wall, drained from a day of trying to bolster his shields. It's going to be a long night too; mostly everyone is dreaming, and he's grown used to only sensing Erik –

He yelps, rather undignified, when Erik smoothly scoops him up and heads up the stairs, his breathing so even that he could have been strolling down the street.

"I _am_ an adult, Erik, and perfectly capable of walking," Charles says indignantly.

Erik smiles, the soft sweet smile that Charles only ever sees in private, and his thoughts whisper of _adorable-lab-rat/too-pale-too-drained/time-to-sleep_. Up ahead, Charles hears his door lock click open, and Erik steps through, his powers providing the necessary pull to open the door without any effort, before gently setting him down, placing his arms around Charles's waist to steady him, affection rumbling through Erik's mind like the steady splash of waves against the beach. He dozes, barely awake, as Erik perfunctorily strips off his clothes and manhandles him into his pajamas, and Erik's laughter at the childish blue-and-white pinstripes only makes him twitch and mutter incomprehensibly.

_Where're you going?_ Charles slurs, partially due to the scotch he's imbibed and mainly because he's absolutely exhausted.

Erik hesitates, half sitting on the bed and half standing, looking as if he's torn between staying and leaving. A wash of _confusion-uncertainty-want_ pulses through his mind, making Charles's hand tingle from where Erik's hand is resting on it. The desire thrumming through Erik is delicious, and it makes Charles squirm, being the center of that kind of attention; he's never met anyone so clear and focused about what they want from Charles.

"You need sleep," Erik says mildly.

Charles feels he should be vaguely insulted by that, but instead he merely pushes his own sleepy content into Erik's mind, a silent request to _stay_.

Erik stills, and Charles can feel his _want_ melt away into that silent exasperated affection Erik tends to feel whenever he thinks Charles is acting, in his words, like a spoiled brat. But Erik still flips back the covers and slides in, and when Charles reaches for him he throws an arm and a leg over Charles's own, drawing him close. Charles rests his head against Erik's chest, inhaling his scent and letting his heartbeat soothe his mind, already half-asleep again, grateful for Erik's proximity and presence.

"What were you talking about with Moira?" Erik says, his voice soft and his accent stronger now that he's relaxed and starting to doze off.

_Nothing important_, Charles mutters.

"Hmm."

Charles gets the sense that something is bothering Erik, something small and vivid and clinging, but Erik's fingers are brushing across his nape and through his hair and Erik's mind is a swirling pull of _sleep-rest-love-you_, and Charles is caught like a fly in a spider's web, drawn into sleep's gentle embrace, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

When he wakes, to his surprise, Erik is still there. And for once, Erik is still sleeping.

He doesn't relax fully even in sleep, Charles realizes, staring at the angles of Erik's face. They are sleep-soft, but barely; his jaw is only relaxed enough to not cause pain to his teeth from his clenching. And his arm around Charles's waist is heavy and strong, enough that he couldn't possibly wriggle successfully away from Erik's grip. He is like the kind of predator who dozes instead of sleeps, and only closes both his eyes to give his enemies the false hope that he can be surprised.

He's still achingly beautiful, and nowhere near the monster Charles knows Erik thinks he is.

Charles burrows closer, tucking his head under Erik's chin, delighting in the smell of Erik's body and the warmth of Erik's bare chest under his palms. Erik doesn't particularly care whether he sleeps naked or clothed; Charles supposes that kind of luxury was beyond his control when he was under Shaw. In fact, Charles suspects that Erik only really wore clothes to bed during their recruitment trip because Charles went bright red the one time Erik walked out of the shower in only a towel, and even then he was laughing at Charles in his own privately amused way as he pulled on pants.

(_Such sensibilities, Charles, I'm surprised you survived university_, Erik had said, leaning against the wall, a statuesque figure with gleaming eyes. Charles had thrown a pillow at him, and then proceeded to bury his face in his hands in embarrassment. Erik had been careful to wear at least pants from then on.)

Erik shifts, and his breathing picks up. There's a moment of silence, when Charles is sure that Erik is remembering where he is and who he lying next to, before Erik is pushing him away and on to his back, pinning Charles like a hawk pins his prey and towering over him, a speculative gleam in his eyes.

"Pinstripe pajamas, Charles?" he says, amused. "How decadent."

Charles bats Erik's hand away, but Erik isn't deterred; he merely leans his body weight more heavily on Charles, trapping him in place. "They're comfortable."

"I'm certain," Erik drawls.

His gaze softens and he bends to kiss Charles, slowly and indulgently, such a change from the first few times when Erik kissed him like he was starving and Charles his last chance to eat. Charles knows that it's because Erik is used to having prizes dangled in front of him only to be taken away, and he's grown into the habit of taking what he wants exactly when it is presented, because there is no guarantee, with him, that it will be around later. He's actually surprised Erik intended to wait after discovering he wanted Charles.

There's a knock on Charles's door, and Erik's head snaps up. He pushes himself off of Charles and crouches on the bed, eyes a little distant, and Charles hears the metal in his bedroom begin to hum.

Charles sits up and presses a hand to Erik's back. "Easy, Erik," he soothes. "It's just Moira."

Erik gives him a flat stare. "What does she want this early in the morning?" Erik grumbles, shifting restlessly.

"I don't know. Do you want me to ask?"

Charles doesn't wait for a response before he lifts two fingers to his temple, because he can't exactly explain why Erik is here, in his bedroom, in his _bed_, barely half-dressed, clearly not having slept in his own bed last night. It's not entirely an altruistic move either; Erik is attractive to both sexes even with his clothes _on_, and Charles knows that even Moira would stare if Erik waltzed around in his current state. And, of course, there's this nasty little thing called a ban on sodomy, and the last thing Charles or Erik or any of them, really, needs is for their leaders to be jailed for it, because Erik would view it as an attack that showcased both human cruelty and human unwillingness to accept those who are different – not to mention an attack on _Charles_, and if there is one thing Erik absolutely refuses to accept, it's someone he cares for being hurt because of him.

(And, besides, no jail cell in the world right now could possibly lock Erik in or out, and it is a little too early in the morning for mass hysteria caused by anyone, much less Erik, who never does anything halfway.)

Erik laughs softly, and his body relaxes.

"Oh shut up," Charles tells him, "and let me handle this."

_Moira? What is it?_

He can feel her jump. _Oh. I'd forgotten you could – Right. Do you have some Advil around here, I have a headache._ Now that she mentions it, he can feel the slight throbbing in her mind that signals a headache, and he sighs.

_Hold on, let me think. . . Why don't you – _

He yelps, rather inelegantly, when Erik's arms slither around his waist and tug him to sit between Erik's legs, Erik bending his head to nuzzle at the juncture between Charles's neck and shoulder.

"Erik!"

Erik doesn't say anything, but a sense of smugness radiates from him. _We all have to train, don't we?_ he challenges, arms tightening around Charles's waist as he nips at Charles's neck, causing him to gasp and squirm fruitlessly, trying to get away, frantically trying to separate the lust flaring in Erik's mind from leaking over to his connection to Moira.

"Erik, if you don't stop, I'm opening the door!" Charles hisses.

"So let her see us." Erik smiles against his skin. "But, ah, yes, I had forgotten – you like to be normal, don't you?" Erik flicks a negligent finger in the door's direction, and with an alarming _whoosh_, Charles sees the hinges melt, running down the door like liquid water until they seal the door in completely, the point where the only way it could possibly be opened would be for Charles to kick it down – something which, he admits, is beyond him.

"Erik, open my door!"

"As you wish, vicar," Erik says, rolling his eyes, and Charles makes his escape.

Moira stares at his messy state, but he can feel her attributing it to him being a lazy, late sleeper, so he has no trouble getting her away and down to the kitchen, where he can fish out the Advil in piece and toss it to her.

"Here," he says curtly, annoyed despite himself at being interrupted with his moment with Erik.

She raises an eyebrow. "Where have your manners gone?" Moira teases.

"With my good night's sleep," Charles teases right back, closing the cabinet with a snap. "I suppose I should restock this, no?" With all the teenagers running around, doubtless Charles will need more of that medicine.

Erik comes down then, showered and dressed, and slinks past Moira with a curt greeting before passing deliberately close to Charles to reach the coffee.

"Morning," he murmurs, pressing a hand to the small of Charles's back briefly.

It feels like brand, burning into Charles's skin with the weight of Erik's possessiveness in the face of Moira, whom Erik doesn't particularly like as a human, and Charles feels the absurd desire to tug Erik's head down and kiss him and prove that Moira really cannot measure up to Erik right now – not any offense to Moira, but Erik is just . . . Erik. Moira's lovely and smart and determined, but, compared to Erik's beautiful broken mind – glass walls and metal symphonies, rage and love and hurt balled into one – that called so strongly to Charles that he was jumping off the boat before he had any idea what was really going on . . .

Well.

There isn't much of a contest, and Charles is a _telepath_. If he falls for someone, he doesn't care about the gender or their IQ or their past. He cares about their _mind_, and if Moira's is a star in the darkness, Erik's is a supernova that is at once excruciatingly bright and yet exquisitely entrancing, and Charles cannot look away.

Also, telepathy is enhanced by contact – which Erik definitely knows – and Erik is standing there with his _hand_ pressed against Charles's _skin_ –

Charles flushes, mumbles an excuse, and flees, feeling Erik laugh at him the whole way.

They split up for training the kids. Erik runs them into the ground – or the wall, more commonly – with brutal regimens in exercise and sparring, leaving them nursing a constant array of bruises and cuts that make Charles sigh and restock the first aid kits. Erik even tries to get Charles into it, but their sparring match that morning turns into something completely inappropriate, and after that Erik concedes that fighting Charles doesn't do much good.

("I'm perfectly capable of fighting, Erik – you just happen to be bloody _heavy_." "Yes, and Shaw will most definitely take that into account when he sends his minions after you, Charles." "Isn't that what you are for?" " . . . I wouldn't let them hurt you. Ever." "I know.")

Charles contents himself with studying their gifts. Even when it becomes a little dangerous and leaves Erik a little antsy.

Just like when Charles practices with Alex, whose aim _is_ improving, thank you very much.

Then, one day, Moira and Sean come down to see, as Erik is apparently "torturing Raven" and Sean has just escaped, and Alex is nervous but willing to show them how far he's come, and just to prove it Charles stands by the dummy just like he did the first time.

He catches one flare of alarm from Moira, and then pain explodes across his senses. He immediately yanks at his shields, building them up into high, impenetrable walls that slam up to prevent him from broadcasting too far. Red spots dance across his vision and he stares dazedly up at the ceiling, feeling his elbow and knee throb painfully in tune, and he can hear the tinny sound of someone saying something but it's just not registering and then –

"Charles!"

He blinks. Sound returns to the world. As does order.

And Charles becomes aware that he's lying on the ground, and his arm is on _fire_. He only just barely snaps his teeth together to prevent the torrent of swear words, in every language he knows – and some he doesn't, thanks to the storm of profanity Erik unleashed on him in Florida when they met – from escaping his lips. As it is, he can't stop himself from gasping in pain when he sits up and his sleeve tugs at the burned skin.

Moira and Hank drag him to the kitchen and seat him on the table, and he follows, half-dazed, trying to prevent the pain he feels from bleeding over. He only really becomes sentient when Hank rolls up his sleeve.

Charles hisses in pain.

"Sorry, Professor, sorry!" Hank exclaims, backing away worriedly.

Moira shoves him aside and takes up the task. She's actually rather efficient at cleaning things up, and her examination of the wound is fairly quick yet concise.

"Dare I ask how you know this?"

"I used to be a teacher, Charles. I saw a lot of things," she says, smiling at him as she winds the bandage around the burn with a practiced eye and steady hand. "Not the same thing as a plasma ray burn, I'll admit, but I imagine the principles are similar."

"I would hope so," Charles sighs. Alex already is feeling guilty and startled enough as it is. Charles can already see how long it will take to get his courage back up. And probably he's going to need to soothe Erik for a long time before _he_ settles down either, as he's becoming increasingly overprotective – not noticeably or terribly, just . . . _there_, and sometimes it's appreciated to know that Erik's watching his back and actually _cares_ about what happens to him, but sometimes it's just plain annoying.

As if summoned by Charles's thoughts, Erik slips into the kitchen, movements weary and languid from his workout, followed by a blue-scaled, red-haired Raven, both dressed in training suits.

Erik stops short, and his eyes narrow to focus on where Moira is carefully tying the bandage. "What's this?" he asks, stalking forward, suddenly alert and tense, menace in every line of his body as if he's ready to tear Moira apart.

Charles forestalls him with a raised hand – his good hand – and presses it briefly against Erik's chest. "It's fine. Just an accident."

Erik's forehead creases, and although he halts at Charles's gesture, his fists remained clenched at his sides. "An accident," he repeats flatly. "An accident that leaves you _burned_. Explain to me how _that_ is an accident, Charles." At the very least, he has shifted his attention from Moira to Charles, but his tone remains heavy with the implication of what Erik might do to Moira if his worst suspicions are confirmed.

"Alex slipped, that's all. Nothing to worry about." _Can we deal with this later?_ Charles continues, shooting a pointed glance at Raven and Moira, who are doing a fantastic job of pretending not to listen.

Erik's jaw twitches, and he whirls around abruptly to storm away.

Moira looks up. "Is he all right?"

Charles sighs. Sometimes, he can read Erik like an open book, and vice versa. Other days, it feels like he's blind and Erik's mute and communication between them is nigh impossible. This, unfortunately, seems to one of the latter times, and Charles refuses to intrude on Erik's privacy to determine what really is the matter, because Erik doesn't waste energy on causes he deems petty, and if he deems this important, it's probably important to Charles too.

Yet Erik still comes to Charles's bedroom that night for chess, still slides into bed next to Charles, still wraps his arms and body around him and whispers, "Sleep, _schatz_." And Charles decides that Erik's probably sorted it out on his own.

So it's probably a bad thing that it isn't until Charles catches flashes of Moira's thoughts about Erik being rather curt and rude before he realizes that Erik's been acting distant and cool for the past three days. It's probably even worse that it takes a brush with Erik's mind during their ritual chess games to realize –

"Erik, are you _jealous_ of Moira?"

Erik drops the rook he'd been about to move, expression startled in a way Charles has never seen before. Erik almost never loses his cool. Then Erik's features shift and harden, and he stands and moves to, supposedly, get another drink, but the damage is done.

"You are, aren't you?"

Erik raises an eyebrow as he turns around, sipping placidly at his drink. "Why would I be jealous of a human, Charles?" he asks, tone repulsed and slightly bored, as though Moira is more akin to a speck of dust than a living, breathing rival to Charles's affections. If Charles wasn't a telepath, the illusion would be flawless.

But Erik's other hand is clenched at his side, and his eyes are tight, and his mind trembles with jealously and a raw, raw fear of losing Charles.

"Because I talk to her a lot," Charles says, picking the answer out of Erik's memories and fears.

"That doesn't change anything."

"It does in your mind."

Erik's eyes flash. "Get out, Charles," he warns, setting his drink down, menace oozing from his tone.

Charles raises his hands and carefully distances himself. "My apologies, Erik," he says cautiously, "but you really are broadcasting all over the – "

Erik raises a hand and suddenly Charles finds himself yanked upright and then dragged forward until he smacks into Erik, his metal belt and cufflinks vibrating under the force of Erik's power. Erik whirls, turning them as if they're dancing, and backs Charles up until his knees hit the back of the bed and Erik can loom over him, caging him in with his arms and legs. Then he smiles and dips his head to Charles's ear, his breath warm and making Charles shiver.

"Scared, are you?" Erik rumbles, sounding amused.

Charles takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax. This is Erik – someone he loves and who loves him back just as much, if not more and in different ways. Erik will never hurt him. Ever. He tilts his head, allowing Erik better access as he nips at Charles's neck. "No. Not of you."

_Good_, Erik's mind whispers, just before he shifts, suddenly, and –

Charles's military training kicks in before he can stop himself. His hands flash up – one to knock back Erik's jaw, another to punch Erik in the stomach.

Erik jerks back, seemingly startled, before leaning in and pinning Charles's wrists to the bed with one hand and his watch. His grey eyes bore into Charles, searching, before he rests his forehead against Charles, face softening as if in apology. "Where did you learn to do that?" he murmurs, pressing lingering kisses to the top of Charles's head.

Charles sighs. "Long story."

Only Raven knows about his deployment to Korea, and he intends to keep it that way. It's not that he mistrusts Erik. But he has grown comfortable in his secrets, and he clings to them almost as strongly as he clings to his belief that there is good in the world, somewhere, because if he didn't have those beliefs, he would probably go insane. Or cold and depressed, because as a telepath, he hears everything, and most of the time, that "everything" is more of the bad in this world than the good.

Besides – Erik needs all the help he can get, to learn to trust and to love, and Charles doesn't think Erik would react well to learning that Charles is almost in the same shape as him – abused by his stepfather, bullied by his stepbrother, taunted and teased in school, beaten up by war, and in the end, all too aware of the evil in the world – with one key difference.

Erik still remembers his mother's love. Vaguely and dimly, but it's there.

(The first thing Charles remembers about his mother was that she never said "I love you" and that the first thing she did after giving birth was to hand Charles over to a wet nurse.)

In the end, if Erik knew, he would probably just call Charles an even bigger idealistic idiot than he already thinks Charles is. So Charles keeps quiet. Maybe, one day, when this whole Shaw affair is behind them, he'll tell Erik. Maybe.

Erik lifts his head and looks at him. "It's always a long story with you, isn't it?" he asks, seemingly privately amused in a way Charles cannot comprehend and is content to leave alone.

Charles merely smiles.

For once, it doesn't seem to bother Erik, and in fact he seems strangely smug. Charles at first attributes this to the fact that his mind reacts instinctively to the welcome warmth of Erik's mind, whispering _good_ and _love you_ and _Charles_ – and of course, how his mind reacts dictates how his body does, and it's little work to let Erik strip away his clothes and let them fall where they will the same way it's been happening for the past few nights.

But then, when it's over and lazy contentment has settled deep in Charles's bones, he rubs at the spot where Erik bit him when white-hot pleasure wiped out their vision. The spot twinges as Charles rubs as it, scowling, and he can tell it's going to be a spectacular bruise by tomorrow –

Oh.

Erik is grinning like a shark when Charles glares at him, and his smugness is probably why he yields easily when Charles pushes and prods until he's lying on his side and no longer suffocating Charles.

"Why would I be jealous, you ask?" Erik says. "Of course I'm not jealous. Why would I be, when the whole world will know you are _mine_?"

Charles sighs and lets his head fall forward to rest against Erik's chest. "You are lucky that I wear high-collar shirts," he grumbles. It's not the first time Erik has marked him, or expressed such a sentiment, given his possessiveness; but it _is_ the first time Erik's marked him in a place where anyone might be able to see. He thinks, _I should have expected this, probably._ Charles already knows the extent to which Erik will go to ward off anyone he sees as a rival – he actually should probably be thankful that Erik hasn't done anything more drastic.

Erik considers it. "Not tomorrow, you won't."

Charles flushes furiously at the increasingly lurid images bouncing around in Erik's mind – in particular, the one where Erik is methodically planning on stealing every high-collar shirt Charles owns before forcing Charles to wear one of Erik's, and while Charles has stolen one of Erik's shirts to sleep in once or twice when he was lazy and feeling mischievous about driving Erik crazy, this is a rather different matter entirely.

"I hate you," Charles mutters fervently.

Erik laughs and gathers Charles close, his thoughts shifting past his plotting and descending into wordless, primal affection, strong enough that Charles can feel it echoing at the very core of Erik's mind, unshakeable and undoubtedly _there_.

"Go to sleep," is all Erik says.

The next morning, Erik makes good on his threat and Charles is forced to leave off his beloved cardigan, and he only barely keeps from blushing as Hank shoots him odd looks as they strap Sean into Hank's flying contraption whenever Erik lounges lazily against the other window, eyes fixed on the barely-covered bruise on Charles's shoulder under his pale blue oxford shirt.

_I really, really hate you_, Charles says.

Erik's grin grows wider, just in time for Hank to look up as Charles leans out the window to assure himself that Sean is still alive and think some rather alarmingly calm calculations that Charles doesn't really want to think about, thank you very much, and thank God that Hank is a scientist and can think about sex in numbers and biological terms, but Charles can still feel his face growing redder as he hastily withdraws from the window and tugs at his shirt collar in an attempt to control any further damage. He looks everywhere but Hank in the meantime, trying to ignore Erik laughing in his head, and his gaze falls on the satellite in the distance.

_I _will_ get you back for this_, Charles threatens.

_How?_ Erik wonders.

Charles smirks and looks again at the satellite. It's completely made of metal, or at least made of enough metal to give Erik a proper challenge. And hopefully it will keep Erik's mind off of Moira for the time being.

_Come outside, Erik, it's time for _your_ training_, is all Charles says.

And Erik . . . brings a gun.

* * *

><p>AN: Seriously screwing with the timeline here, I know, I know. But the training montage doesn't really give me a firm grip of how long they were actually at the mansion, and this if fanfiction, so . . . just go with it, please?

Sneak Peek: _Argument in August._ It isn't like Erik hasn't argued with Charles before. They argue over practically everything and anything, and generally Erik enjoys the presence of a partner able to carry an intellectual conversation with him as much as he enjoys being able to slip into Charles's bed and cradle him close and safe in his arms. But this – this argument is different. This argument is about Shaw. And God help him, but Erik will kill Shaw – with or without Charles.


End file.
